Chains
by Raidho
Summary: The Archdemon defeated, the Blight ended, a dysfunctional family drifts apart, and in breaking finds many of them were closer than they realized. A series of shorts dealing with the immediate aftermath of the Blight and the breaking of the party.
1. Survival

A/N: Herein is the first of a series of snippets, post-Origins, setting the stage for a longer and more coherent post-Awakening story. Mostly Warden (MAmell)-, Zevran-, and Alistair-centric, romance and friendship (there will be action when I get to the post-Awakening story), but everyone will get their moment eventually. This deals mostly with the breaking of the party. Needless to say, spoilers.

This is my first fanfic in at least six years, so I'm understandably nervous about sharing it, but I do enough original writing that I can take a few hits. Regardless, I hope you enjoy, and if you don't, I'd like to know why so I can fix it

* * *

Groaning, because pain and a foul, burnt stench were the first things to assault his senses, Zevran struggled to open his eyes. His head ached with the ferocity of a thousand hangovers, and his left shoulder was disturbingly _numb_. Beyond this, his vision was blurry, so it took a moment to realize he was laid out under a cloudy sky, the same one he'd been fighting under all day, firelight still reflecting from the cloud bottoms and turning them into the boiling lava of the Deep Roads.

And then the noise started. Cheering, the like of which he'd never heard, as if the stone of the city itself made a joyous sound. Over the din he heard motion around him, people moving in armor. Arl Eamon's voice, Alistair's in response—they didn't make sense just yet.

Just as his vision resolved, Morrigan's scowling face appeared over him. "Ah, I can think of only one sight I would prefer waking to, my dearest witch."

The witch made a sound of disgust. "Not dead, I see. Pity. The Warden will be pleased, at least. Come on." She grabbed his left forearm and rocked back to let him pull himself up, but as soon as Zevran put his full weight on the arm he was on the ground again, hugging the arm to his chest and blinking back tears.

"You have no idea how much it pleases me to hear you _scream_ like that, elf. But under the circumstance, I think we would be better served having you whole." Morrigan prodded the shoulder, and Zevran cried out again, cursing in Antivan. "Well, whole as I can make you, being no real healer. At least this will stop that head wound bleeding, too."

"What-?" A wave of healing magic numbed the pain in his shoulder, though it did little for the dizziness or the pounding in his skull.

"You are currently a redhead, Zevran." Morrigan smiled grimly. "I must say it suits you, but then I only appreciate your natural beauty when you are covered in blood and near death—it usually means your fool mouth is not running, and I may soon be rid of your presence."

"Surely no sweeter compliment has ever been paid me." Morrigan helped him up using his right arm this time, while Zevran did his best to keep the left immobile and close to his body. The world swam momentarily, but he kept his feet under him.

For the moment that Morrigan kept his attention, her smile warmed. "And yet your irreverent self. I understand, now, why he chose you. Care for him well, and if I ever hear you have done otherwise, I will visit countless torments upon you, the like of which your Crows have never conceived."

Zevran drew in a sharp breath. "Then he's-?"

She gestured. "Go look for yourself."

Zevran stumbled over at roughly the same time Alistair reached the Warden's side. Briefly, Zevran noted that the almost-templar was limping, but walking unaided, so it must not be particularly serious. No, the Warden was of more immediate concern.

He was still breathing. Curled against one of the fort's battlements where he'd been thrown by the explosion, and he was still _breathing_ under all that blood. Alive.

"We need a healer," Alistair said. "Morrigan! Morri—where'd she go?"

Zevran only half heard his companion, focused on the fact that the Warden was laying at his feet, _alive_. Alistair had told him, early in the morning, that one of them would likely die, and why, and Zevran knew it would be the Warden. Cadryn was the most alive of any person Zevran had ever met, but it meant he valued the lives of others even over his own at times. They were such opposites in that, though similar in so many other ways.

"She's not a very good healer, anyway. She just knows the one spell." Zevran smiled, and to those around him it looked maniacal. "He is _alive_." And then Zevran started laughing.

When the laughter made him so short of breath his head began to swim again, Zevran collapsed to his knees, and he had no idea when the laughter turned to tears, but by the time Alistair was tugging him up from the ground to follow the litter now bearing their Warden, they were tears indeed. A warehouse near the fort had been cleared out and a makeshift infirmary set up, and that was where they were taking the Warden. By the time they got out of Fort Drakon, Zevran had stopped crying, and now stumbled along, dizzy and elated, an idiotic grin on his face.

A slim handful of men and women with magical or medical training manned the warehouse, and those told to tend the Warden were visibly distraught with the responsibility. Zevran's threat of, "If he does not live, neither will you," didn't much help matters, but by the look on his face Alistair was torn between agreement and disapproval—this was his greatest friend, after all. That brought back Zevran's dumb smile.

Zevran knew better than to crowd the infirmary, so he stood a short distance away, just close enough to make good on his threat should Cadryn perish. Someone found Alistair a chair after helping him remove his armor, and started examining his injured leg. He tried to shoo them off, insisting others could use the help more—the concerned look he shot Zevran only widened the elf's psychotic smile—but the healer persisted.

_I must look more what people expect of an assassin. Crazed and blood soaked._ But the thought drifted loose among a cloud of others, and Zevran didn't dwell on it.

An instant later, Zevran was sitting in a chair that hadn't been there before, curledaround his arm again—he couldn't curl around the pain, because something was wrong with his _shoulder_, but he did his best—blinking back tears once more. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Wynne told us to get you off your feet. I didn't think..."

"Didn't look like she put more'n a whisker's weight down on you. What-"

"_Don't_," Zevran hissed, and Oghren's hand stopped in midair. Terrified he'd missed something, Zevran looked up to the Warden, saw Wynne hovering over Cadryn now. The old mage spared him a glance, said something harsh to one of the attendants seeing to the Warden and pointed to Zevran. The attendant immediately broke off and came to them.

Leliana remained, hovering in near-silence, nervous over the almost crazed tension in Zevran's form, but Oghren left immediately. He could stand the sight of their "fearless leader" at death's door—wasn't the first time, though it was probably the worst—but not Zevran, blood soaked and clearly unhinged. As soon as he stepped out of the warehouse Cassius stood, padded up to him, and gave a concerned whine.

"Let's go help those tall sodders clean up the stragglers, huh?" Cassius made a grumbling noise in response, and returned to his spot curled up next to the entrance. "Fine! More for me." Killing more darkspawn would be better than this _waiting_, easier than confessing any concern.

ooooooo

Late that evening they moved the Warden and all his companions to the palace. It was something akin to house arrest, but after seeing the attention lavished on Alistair and the number of people lined up to get a glimpse of the Warden, Zevran understood: it was more for their protection than anything else. And some time after the move he finally got his shoulder pieced back together with a pretty young mage's gentle telekinesis (it was still the second most painful experience of his life). Apparently it had taken the brunt of his fall when the Archdemon died in a brilliant explosion of energy, and he had landed very close, so a great deal of pressure had managed to _shatter_ part of his shoulder and collar bone. Now the arm was bound to his chest to keep it completely immobile, and would stay so for an uncomfortably long time to keep the pieces from shifting. Magic could only encourage the growth, could not heal bone, especially not so badly damaged.

Zevran closed his eyes to shut out the guest room, settled his forehead on the chair back, still able to feel the cool wood through his bandages, taking great pleasure in the sensation. He wanted more than anything right now to be curled against Cadryn's chest, listening to the man's heartbeat for certainty that the mage yet lived, his good hand twined in Cadryn's fingers. Surprising, that he did not fantasize about the mage's jest, his first challenge, entering Zevran's game of wordplay as a competitor as opposed to a victim, _After I ravish you in celebration?_ It had caught him off guard, because the Warden had always responded stoically to any flirtation or verbal joust. Cracks in the mask, to the man beneath the Warden, to _Cadryn_. It was after that Zevran had been more forthcoming, because he had but one weapon to wield against someone so strong: truth. _I will see more of the stranger beneath the Warden_, he had thought, and alternately _the truth of me will push him away_ or _the truth of me will draw his pity._

Neither. Sympathy and understanding, not pity. But opening up all his old wounds for the Warden had the desired effect, and once he had it Zevran nearly ran away screaming. Because the man beneath the Warden made him want to _live_. Selfless care, but not to the point of naivete, and the power and confidence were no show to keep his little team together. The parts of Warden he admired and respected were _real_, and the personality behind it shared his sick appreciation of schadenfreude, ironic without being jaded. That Cadryn was one of those try-anything-once people and had never been out of the Circle for more than a handful of hours before becoming a Grey Warden had been exciting enough already, and the thought that he could show Cadryn so much more of life in the peace ahead seemed a pleasant dream.

"Hey," soft. "You were drifting." More care in that voice than he was used to. But the poke accompanying the words was irksome.

Zevran groaned. "Are you going to stop that any time soon?"

He could hear Alistair's smirk. "Would you rather I wake you up every hour, on the hour? Less chance of you slipping off when no one's looking, this way."

The way Alistair said _slipping off_ made it sound as if they were afraid Zevran would vanish like Morrigan had. He had no such intentions, but Alistair was right all the same. After so sincerely wanting his own death, to have it frighten him anew was more than a little distressing. But Cadryn had lived, somehow, and he must as well. If that meant spending the entire night with Alistair prodding him and saying inane things to keep him aware when blood loss and exhaustion and the concussion made it hard to stay awake, then he would be grateful that the not-quite-templar cared enough about Cadryn that his care extended to Zevran.

"I'm going to regret asking this," Alistair started, "but what are you thinking about?"

What to say? _I just want to hold him right now_ or _I am certain, if I described my thoughts to you, the resulting nosebleed would be so catastrophic as to kill you, and it would be a shame to survive the Archdemon only to be slain by secondhand embarrassment._ Perhaps, _I am grateful for your presence, even if it is in friendship to Cadryn and not to me_ or _Whether you would have the gall to continue poking me if I broke all your fingers._ Maybe, _I wanted to die, and my chosen method of suicide saved me, how do you come to terms with such a thing_ or _How very grateful I am that it is my shoulder that was injured and not my face._

In the end Zevran said, "_We are alive_, my friend. I am simply basking in the glory of it."

That for once Alistair did not object to being called a friend made the next several hours more bearable.


	2. Vigil

After a very, _very _long rest and a hearty meal, Zevran stepped up his efforts to get Wynne to let him sit with Cadryn. Two days out from the Archdemon's defeat, and the Warden had yet to wake. Everyone else had a go at keeping vigil, and now that he was well enough to be of some use should the Warden suddenly worsen or waken, Zevran thought it was more than time forhim to do his part.

"No," was Wynne's cool, calm answer.

"And why not?"

Her lips drew tight, nearly to a flat line, and she clasped her hands in front of her waist. "Rest and a good meal does not, by necessity, make you well. You will still be weak for a while, and it will not serve us to have you drift off while keeping an eye on Cadryn."

He tapped the blunt end of an eating knife, no longer in use, against the heavy wooden table, sliding his hand up the blade. And was suddenly thankful everyone else was gone, no one left to see this argument. "Are you certain this is not about my excellent record with responsibility?"

If possible, her lips pursed a bit in that position, and Zevran's most innocent comparison was that she looked like she'd just eaten an exceptionally sour lemon. He had a more colorful thought, though, and more apt to the situation. "In part, yes."

"You do not trust me with the life of the man I love." He had not said it aloud to anyone but Cadryn, and he barely managed not choking on the word, so difficult saying it around Wynne. Perhaps he could say this to Leliana and keep a straight face, but he had spent so much time provoking Wynne it almost hurt to say something serious.

Sighing heavily, the elder mage said, "I don't doubt your conviction or your affection for him—try as you might to hide it, I've seen the changes in you over the past few months."

Zevran did not wait for Wynne to continue her explanation. "Yet Oghren gets to sit with him. The drunkard. He is more trustworthy than I?" He continued tapping the blade against the table, sliding his fingers up it after each contact and flipping it deftly over to repeat with the other end, and focused on this instead of looking at Wynne. "You have hounded me about guilt and repentance, Wynne. I have no need of these things—should I ever forget that I once tried to kill the Warden, you are there to remind me."

"This has nothing to do with-"

"-me being an assassin, yes. But it has everything to do with _your opinion_, Wynne. You do not trust me, you do not like me, and I have encouraged this because, quite frankly, I think you are a _windbag_." He stopped tapping the knife, driving the point into the table, no small task between the bluntness of the blade and the trembling in his arm from weakness and anger. Looking up at Wynne, he continued. "But I have trusted _you_, Wynne. I have trusted you with more than my life—I have trusted you with _his_." Pushing back from the table, he stood, gritting his teeth against new pain in his shoulder—the drug that numbed it was wearing off, which made this a most excellent time to pick a fight with Wynne. She did not try to stop him when he left the room.

ooooooo

"Why?"

Zevran rubbed his forehead with his good hand, as the ache of days past returned. "I should think that would be obvious, my smelly little comrade."

Oghren ignored the insult, as it was a sign Zevran was more or less back to normal. "I mean, why won't Wynne let you have your own shift? Why me? And why now? Its not like you're gonna get anything out of him, why torture yourself?"

"I will give you short answers, my friend, so they do not pass over your head. Wynne is an incurable bitch. You are the only person I can conceivably argue out of this duty; who else would give up their time with the Warden, unconscious though he is? And I... cannot believe I am about to say this." Zevran sighed. "There is more to life than pleasures of the flesh. Simply being in the room with him would do me a great deal of good, I think."

"Heh. Hah!" Oghren chuckled, a long, drawn out sound, one supremely amused. "The assassin's getting' soft. I knew it was bad, but this is just _adorable_, now. Just like one of Leliana's stories: you screw up a job and fall for your mark. _Adorable_."

"Oghren?" The dwarf kept chuckling, failed to respond. "I will not hesitate to shave you should you choose to use such words in public."

"_Adorable_. You can have my shift, sure—I don't think I can look at Cadryn without bursting into laughter, now. Be a shame if he woke up to that and I explained to him _why _I was laughing, just to have him start and do his ribs a worse turn." Oghren crossed his arms, the little peals of laughter reducing to a satisfied smile. "And Wynne's supposed to go after me, I can't wait for her reaction."

"I am counting on this, my friend. I think the only way she will refrain from killing me is a large audience."

ooooooo

So on the third day, Zevran finally got to see the Warden—Ferelden's hero—just _Cadryn, _or _lover_ would do. This would surely be the only silent moment they had together, even if only Zevran could enjoy it, for weeks to come. Naturally this room was one of the more richly appointed guest rooms, so the chair he pulled up next to the bed was plush and inviting. He'd prefer something less prone to lull him to sleep, but it would do.

It was both relieving and upsetting to see Cadryn like this. He was a big man, particularly for a mage, with a large frame but sleekly muscled—in a different life he perhaps would have been built like Alistair, but was instead much leaner. And somehow he looked small now. Zevran imagined it was the size of the bed, or how tight the bandages holding his ribs together looked, or this frightening sense of _weakness_. He had seen Cadryn injured many times, once or twice close to this badly, but this was somehow different.

The permanent golden cast to Cadryn's skin—an Antivan ancestor, Zevran surmised—turned his skin a sallow color, how pale he was from blood loss. As Zevran had not seen a mirror in a few days (and was avoiding them as best he could until he felt at least a little less battered) he assumed it did the same to his own skin tone. It made the mage's features seem more prominent as well, his high cheekbones more angular and heavy on the face, his lips perhaps the only real color there aside from the tattoos that ran from the bridge of his nose and down across his cheeks, now standing out even more starkly against his skin.

He was still wearing the earring, and Zevran pushed aside a lock of auburn hair to see it better. Thankfully, no one had removed the earring in treating him, and the sight of it was, as always, a reassurance. Much as Zevran claimed he had no permanent hold on Cadryn, he had marked the man with this. Cadryn had said as much—the suggestion that it was a proposal had been a joke in the man's resonant voice, but with that he had acknowledged what Zevran was doing. The joke made it easier, somehow, though it was already frighteningly easy to commit.

Zevran pulled the blankets up over Cadryn's bare shoulders, best as he could one-handed, then settled down, taking one of Cadryn's hands up in his good one. Familiar as he was with the human's touch, he had paid little attention to the man's hands before, and soon enough was stroking the palm gently with his thumb. The fingertips were calloused, as he expected of a mage, and lightly across the heel and pad of the hand, from staff and sword and work of the past few months. The fingers were long and, once Zevran accounted for the size difference between himself and the human (he came up to Cadryn's shoulder when standing close, and that was being generous), surprisingly delicate, though the hands overall _looked_ as strong as they were. The skin in the bowl of his hand was hardly calloused at all, so Zevran paid particular attention to this.

"Exactly what I was hoping my first sight would be." Weak, but there was some humor in his tone. Zevran smiled.

"How long have you been awake?" In truth, he hadn't noticed, too caught up in Cadryn's hand, and Zevran berated himself for an instant. If he was so easily distracted, the Crows may as well take them both now.

"Just since you've been doing that. Don't stop." Cadryn sighed, more of a wheezing sound. "We're alive."

Smiling, Zevran looked up to meet emerald eyes, and though the mage looked haggard and worn relief spread through Zevran. "I was just as surprised."

"Your shoulder?" Cadryn asked, making a subtle gesture with his head.

"Shattered. It has been magicked back together as best it can be. It will heal, I am told, but it will be some weeks before I know how _well_ it will heal."

Cadryn frowned, and Zevran knew the mage was adopting the fear Zevran would not allow himself. "I'd like to look at it, when I can. Though I can't imagine I can do anything more than Wynne."

"I would perhaps be a better patient for you, which may go a long way." Zevran twined his fingers into Cadryn's. "As for the others, no one else was hurt in a lingering fashion, save Alistair—I am not clear on what is wrong, because it is not broken and I have not asked, but he is to keep weight off his right leg. I am inclined to believe it is much more serious than he lets on, because he is stubborn instead of whiny about it. Honestly, he is in far more danger from his nurses, I think. That Templar virtue and all."

Cadryn laughed, a pleasing sound even in his weakened voice, but stopped abruptly. "Ow. Don't do that again."

"Not until you are well enough, at least. I will do my best."

Cadryn looked away for a moment, thoughtful, before asking, "Morrigan?'

"Gone." Zevran left out their parting conversation and the witch's threat on his wellbeing—as if he could do anything less than what she demanded.

"She said goodbye, before we entered the city. I didn't expect her to stay long after the battle, but there are things unsaid." Cadryn sighed. "I'm sure they don't need saying. She's as perceptive as you."

"I think, perhaps, she loved you," Zevran said. "Useful as that is now."

"And I _know_ she did. She asked me, once, if she'd ever had a chance. If there could be anything between us. I told her yes, of course, except for you. She understood."

_I would not have stood between you_, Zevran almost said, but it would sound too self-depricating. And he understood Cadryn's meaning, even if hearing the man confess such a thing frightened him for just a second. Certainly Cadryn saw this silence, this hesitation for what it was, and he gave Zevran's hand a gentle squeeze. "I've known her longer than I've known you. And I think I chose rightly."

Standing, Zevran leaned forward to kiss him, keeping his good hand twined in one of Cadryn's. _Thank you_ seemed too weak, and _I love you_ was still too strange, so he let this speak instead. Cadryn's other hand rose and tangled in his hair, but neither of them had the energy for a particularly impassioned exchange.

When Zevran drew away he sat on the edge of the bed instead of returning to the plush chair, and they sat in silence for a while. The angle was too awkward to keep the same hold on Cadryn's hand, so he settled the mage's hand across one thigh and rested his good hand on top of it. For once, Zevran had no concerns, no desires—even being whole in body seemed a distant care, and now that Cadryn was awake he had little cause for concern over the mage's wellbeing. At length he said, "I should tell Wynne you're awake."

"Stay."

Zevran needed no further convincing. By the time Wynne came to relieve him—or rather, came to relieve Oghren—Cadryn was asleep again, and Zevran on the verge of curling up next to him. When the elder mage entered, Zevran gave her a winning smile. She only looked surprised for a second, but the expected disappointment and anger did not come.

"If you're going to be here a while, I suppose I should get today's look at your shoulder over with," was the very last thing Zevran expected to come out of her mouth. Yet there it was. His smile faltered in his surprise.

"If you insist."


	3. Confinement

For about the tenth time the words on the page began to blur together, and Alistair closed the book in defeat. Interested as he was in a book on arcane symbology (he'd been trying to figure out what the script on the dragon statue Cadryn had found was), the thing was dry, and after so many days of being cooped up... Alistair stared down at his leg, propped up on a plush ottoman. He was more or less confined to one floor of the palace, since if Wynne caught him attempting stairs he would probably end up tied to a bed, and it was maddening.

The door opened, and Cassius rose from the floor next to his chair, padded over curiously. Thusly, Bann Teagan got about as far as, "This is the last place-" before he had to contend with a face full of happy mabari. Alistair laughed as Teagan at first tried to convince the mabari to get off him, then adopted a different tactic—but wrestling the hound only encouraged it, so when he finally got up Teagan's fine clothing was a mess of slobber, and his hair similarly mussed.

Alistair was wiping away tears of mirth at this point, and choked out, "You were about to say?"

"I've never pegged you for much interest in books," Teagan said, nodding to the volume now draped across the near arm of Alistair's chair, "so when Leliana told me you were here, I didn't believe her at first."

"I'm hiding," Alistair confessed. "Speaking of which, shut the door, would you? I can't be seen. Maids, nurses, visiting noblewomen—they're all throwing themselves at me."

Teagan gave him something of a suspicious smile. "And this is bad why?"

"Don't get me wrong—it was nice, at first. Then they got _competitive_. I had to pull two girls apart from ripping each other's hair out. That's not nearly as bad as some of the fights they've had over who gets to have me—I've learned five new words and phrases for 'gentlewoman of questionable virtue' today alone, and heard someone say _those exact words_, mind you. About their own mother."

"Ah." Teagan found himself a chair and shifted it to face Alistair. "I imagine that would take some of the charm out of it."

"Just _think,_" Alistair said, starting forward in his chair, "about what it will be like when we _leave the palace_! I'm more likely to be trampled to death in a stampede than to actually bed one of these women!"

"Speaking of leaving the palace, Eamon is wondering what you and the other warden will be doing, after this."

"So you didn't just come to see how I was doing?" Alistair couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.

"In part. Eamon's been busy, so he sent me to check on you and ask about a few things. I think the answer to his first question, then, will be 'Miserable, but well enough'." Teagan leaned back in the chair, settling in for what was likely to be a long conversation. "So?"

"It's not up to me," Alistair said, and he began running one hand nervously across the arm of the chair. "Cadryn is the Warden Commander for Ferelden. What we do is entirely up to him."

"So you have no speculation at all? Assuming he chooses to remain Commander."

Leave it to Teagan to touch on one of his greatest fears. Alistair looked away, focusing on the light filtering through the study's high windows, the dust suspended in each shaft. Late afternoon, he thought, by the golden quality to the light. "What else would he do? He's more Warden than mage. And just because the Blight is ended doesn't remove the threat of Darkspawn. He took an oath, and I'm certain he'll honor it. The only person who could talk him out of it is Zevran, and I've recently come to the conclusion that he's more lost than anyone I've ever met. So there's no danger, there."

Teagan gave a slow nod, which Alistair glimpsed from the corner of one eye. "I'm certain the Chantry will be enthused about a mage as Warden Commander. If you need us, we will be ready to back you up, in a political sense."

"That's reassuring." Alistair exhaled heavily, not quite a sigh. That hadn't occurred to him before, and he was glad Teagan brought it up now.

For a brief moment neither of them spoke, and in the silence Alistair took a moment to appreciate the scent of the study. He'd never been the bookish type, but there was something comforting about the scent of so many in one place. A sort of timelessness. Then Teagan said, "What's wrong with him?"

"Cadryn?" Alistair had been waiting for this one. "Aside from the ribs and and being a few pints lighter. You mean why no one gets in to see him."

"There are rumors," Teagan explained. "I'd see them dispelled, if possible."

This time Alistair did fully sigh. "He's burnt out. At least, that's what Wynne and the First Enchanter said. Killing the Archdemon should've killed him, but instead he just served as a conduit for the Archdemon's essence, and his body and soul treated it like a particularly powerful spell." Alistair gave a sort of dismissive gesture with one hand. "I only understand it as well as I do because of my Templar training, and that I've been hanging around a very well-educated mage for the past year. The First Enchanter could give you all the boring details, but what it really _means_ is that he can't stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. Which is kind of frightening most of the time." Alistair smiled at the memory, and found the strength to look Teagan in the face again. "We've been keeping an eye on him, by turns, and last time I was with him he felt well enough to eat. So he's telling me a story about this friend of his, the one who turned out to be a blood mage, and just as he's getting to the good part he dozes off, mid-sentence, with a mug of broth in hand." Alistair mimed holding such a thing. "I barely caught it in time."

Teagan was clearly not as amused as Alistair, and the almost-Templar thought perhaps it was the mention of Jowan—Isolde's sacrifice was a sore spot for him as well, and he had only partially forgiven Cadryn for the decisions leading up to it. "The rumors are baseless, then," the Bann said. "That's a great relief."

Alistair couldn't stop one hand from reaching up to touch the pendant through his shirt. "I'd like to speak to Eamon, some time soon."

"I'll tell him," Teagan said. "And I should be getting back to him—he'll work himself to death if I let him."

ooooooo

A week and a half out from the Archdemon's defeat Anora decided the celebratory ceremony could no longer wait. Alistair confided to the group (save Cadryn), gathered for dinner, "She just wants us out of here."

Toward the end of the meal Leliana leaned in to Zevran and said, "I will regret asking you this, surely, but I need another pair of eyes with a good sense for color and form when the tailor comes by. Would you mind?"

The elf grinned wide. "Leliana, my dear, I will be the very soul of propriety."

"I was afraid you would say something like that. Please, Zevran?"

"Zev, please. And yes, I will take this task most seriously."

That was how he ended up sitting in one of the parlors with Leliana standing on top of a foot stool in her underthings, three women fussing over fabrics and fittings. While it was an excellent excuse to see her exquisite body, the whole ordeal was honestly boring. He had expected no less.

Leliana, however, was thoroughly enjoying herself. It had been years since she'd had any such luxury, and while the dress would not be extravagant, it would still be beautiful. Though Zevran was obviously bored, he was still great company, teasing her with his usual jibes and flirtations. She could appreciate them now as friendly banter, knowing that while Zevran might be serious in his pursuit, he would never lay a hand on her without first consulting Cadryn. And it was reassuring to have him back to normal, not the half-mad thing he'd been between the Archdemon's defeat and Cadryn waking. She had not realized how attached she was until losing him for a few days.

Leliana prodded him into having something made as well, surprisingly difficult considering how vain Zevran seemed. He rattled off his measurements from memory, citing his injury as an impediment to being measured, and made a few specifications Leliana didn't overhear, too busy finalizing her own order.

"Shoes, next," she said. "I've enjoyed your company, would you mind coming along?"

"I have a few things I need to tend to as well," the elf said, "in more or less the same direction. Assuming the market is in some semblance of order now."

"The soldiers still in town helped out with it, I hear. The dwarves and Eamon's men, anyway—the Dalish may have done a bit around the Alienage, but I heard very little news from there."

"A pity," Zevran said. "Keep an ear out, if you can—I understand Cadryn knew that elven girl, the redhead, and that elven fellow we found in the Arl's dungeon, from somewhere."

"Shianni? She was just charming, don't you think?" Leliana made a point of walking just in front of Zevran until they were out of the palace, opening doors, and obviously coddling him over his injury. He did not protest, and she thought, for a moment, looked relieved.

"If you go for that bitchy thing, yes." Leliana punched him playfully in his right arm, and Zevran laughed. "Though I must confess, I have developed a weakness for redheads since coming into your company."

Leliana smiled, something teasing and faintly lascivious about it. "You mean since coming into _Cadryn_'s company."

"Do not sell yourself short, Leliana. Your own charms are not inconsiderable." So they passed the walk to what remained of the market in Zevran's flirtation and Leliana giggling or turning his comments back on their other companions. And it was... _nice_. Very unlike days past, when Zevran was a useful nuisance at best. And their conversation turned, as they entered the market, now a mix of buildings beyond help and freshly-constructed or clearly repaired structures, from the playful jabs.

"So if he knows Shianni, does that mean he's from Denerim?"

Zevran shrugged with one shoulder. "It is all he will say about his life before the Circle—he is from Denerim. I have tried to ask a few times, but it is clearly something that pains him to discuss. And he is not an easy man to upset."

Leliana slowed her pace a little as they neared her destination, wanting to finish the conversation. "I have only seen him distraught a handful of times, and never by words alone."

"Hah! You weren't at the Landsmeet. I knew he had the capacity for darkness, but seeing him face Loghain... There is much about the Warden neither of us knows, and we may never."

With a small, nervous laugh, Leliana asked, "That doesn't upset you?"

"I do not claim to own him," Zevran responded lightly. "He is free to do as he wishes, and I will not tie him down. So why should a secret or two upset me?"

"And yet you marked him." Leliana realized her mistake immediately in the change of Zevran's expression, a flash of anger before a careful mask of calm amusement settled into place. "Perhaps we should find his family for him? Even if I hated mine, I would want to know if they had lived or died after such a thing."

"Perhaps," he said, voice still light. "It would not hurt to have the information, then let him do what he pleases with it. And here we are." The building was little damaged, but through the large window it was obvious the store was sharing space with another, less fortunate merchant. "I have an errand to run for Cadryn, which will not take me long. We will meet back here soon, yes?"

"Yes." Leliana stopped in the doorway, turned just enough to look at Zevran, an unconsciously alluring position. "You've changed, Zev. I don't know when it happened, but I like it." She hurried in before he could respond.

That was the very last thing he expected, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it, aside from flattered and bemused. He made a quick decision to tend to Cadryn's bizarre errand last, so Leliana would not see his other stop, and made for the very last place he wanted to be in Denerim.

He found Cesar helping the little Orlesian woman erect a tent where her stall in the pavilion had been, the big Antivan making soft chatter with her in the local tongue. From the gentle blush on the woman's cheeks and the frequency of her soft giggles, Cesar was making some headway, and Zevran didn't want to interrupt—but he needed to. "Cesar!"

The big man turned, looking down at him with a sort of confused smile. _"The rumors are true,"_ he said in Antivan. _"You killed Taliesen, then?"_

"_No, the Warden killed Taliesen. I merely helped."_ Zevran nodded to his injured shoulder, where the bandages were visible over his collar. _"And the Archdemon, as well. Just in case the Crows think I'm worth their time."_

"_That's none of my business, friend. I have little stock in the Crows, so long as they keep buying from me. But Ignacio will have to tell them you live."_

"_Let them come,"_ Zevran made a slight, swift jerk upward with his chin. _"I will be ready."_

"_Surely you did not come here to brag. You have business?"_

Zevran told him, and Cesar's pleasant demeanor fell. _"Are you sure?"_

"_I would not be asking for it otherwise. I know they keep track of how many grams pass from hand to hand."_

"_I have enough for two doses."_ Cesar led Zevran over to the tent that was now his stall, and opened a chest under the table, blocking all view with his body, pulled out a smaller box which looked nondescript and turned out to be an elaborate puzzle box. _"And that is all that will pass into Ferelden for years to come, save on a Crow's blade."_

And so Zevran left with about as much money as he'd entered Ferelden, but it would be well worth it—he needed perhaps a fraction of what Cesar had sold him, but if the Crows ever did come to collect him, they would be in for a very nasty surprise. Cadryn's note was dropped off at the specified location, a bakery on the upper end of the market, thankfully intact, and Zevran returned to meet Leliana.


	4. Display

The day for the celebratory ceremony arrived, and it trickled down from Teagan that they would be welcome at Eamon's estate after Anora so ungratefully kicked them out, repairs to all the necessary parts of the estate finally completed. Zevran began to worry—the topic of what would become of him never came up with Cadryn, and he did not want to sound as needy as he had on asking about their future. He resolved to ask in the next moment he had with Cadryn, though, regardless of who was present to hear. He also needed his shoulder functional, unable to afford an appearance of weakness at so public a gathering.

So exactly one-sixteenth of a dose of starry racer venom (a sea slug found in Rialto Bay, so he'd been told long ago, and why such a creature needed such potent venom no one could say) went onto the tip of a clean knife, and he nicked himself with it where the pain was worst, then loosely bound the shoulder. He did not intend to use it, but it had to seem like he could.

After an hour the nausea was manageable, and his shoulder simply numb. He rotated it once or twice experimentally, and there was no pain at all, merely an uncomfortable grinding sensation. Results satisfactory, he set about his other preparations.

Anora was, as expected, something of a bitch, but she took no glory. What surprised Zevran most was that Cadryn looked perfectly hale. The man did not so much as flinch, his voice was resonant again (hearing it sent a shiver down Zevran's spine), and he accepted everything with a good-humored smile, save when stating that the Warden's sacrifices should not be forgotten. Cadryn's path was clear, then, and Zevran began to fear that there might not be a place for him in it. His feet took him nearly to the end of the line, a way of hiding, of saving the pain of parting for last. So long as Cadryn was having a hushed discussion with Alistair or listening to the First Enchanter with that look of mixed pride and sorrow, Cadryn was still his.

To hide his anxiety Zevran enthusiastically launched into a story of their exploits for the few of their allies who sought him out. He kept a watch on Cadryn, from the corner of one eye, and a watch on the best vantages for a skilled assassin with a ranged weapon—anyone here on the ground who he did not personally know and got too close to Cadryn would die with a knife in the back, and thankfully no one did such a thing. So when Cadryn finally appeared next to him Zevran was not surprised, but the hand on his lower back nearly made him jump—Cadryn was never affectionate in public.

"Zevran," he breathed, as if the touch didn't garner enough attention from the assassin.

In his surprise nonchalance came easily, and he looked up to Cadryn, who remained at his side, as he spoke. "I will be relieved when all this pomp and ceremony is done. Such events are perfect opportunities for assassins, after all. I can't help but expect the Crows to appear at any moment." A pause, a chuckle. "Which would be a welcome break, mind you."

Such a thought momentarily wiped the smile from Cadryn's face, something very like anger gathering there. "You think the Crows will come after you?"

"Eventually. With Taliesen dead, it may take them some time to figure out what happened... but they are like the tides. Predictable." This was as good a place as any to begin, and Zevran somehow kept his nervousness in, though he couldn't dispel the resignation from his voice. "You know, it occurs to me that staying in one place is only going to invite the Crows to find me that much quicker. While fun, that might eventually get... complicated." Cadryn didn't respond, so he continued. "You said earlier that you were planning on returning to the Grey Warden fold soon. Is that true?"

Unlike Zevran, Cadryn made no efforts to hide his anxiety, his quiet fear, his hope. All these things played over his face in the heartbeat it took him to lean in and murmur, "Only if you're going with me."

A relieved laugh pulled itself from Zevran's throat, and he relaxed. "Naturally. You caught me and now you're stuck with me, I'm afraid. Sad, I know, but we'll manage somehow."

Zevran meant to leave it at that, but before he could cut their conversation short Cadryn asked, "Your shoulder?"

"Ah," Zevran tapped it for demonstration. "I have taken steps to make it useful for a while."

Cadryn made a discontent noise, somewhere in the top of his throat, but the smile didn't fade. "You'll need it looked at again, later."

Smiling innocently up at him, Zevran said, "I was hoping you could take care of that for me. Wynne has been glaring."

"She has no right to," Cadryn grumbled. "I'm walking around and staying conscious, after all."

"Yes. How-?"

"Lyrium," Cadryn said, and the smile made sense suddenly. "And painkillers. _A lot of lyrium_. I've never had this much before, but Wynne swears its safe. You know I only use as much as absolutely necessary, so I've never taken enough to actually feel it before. Its weird."

"That explains the rambling," and as soon as the words left his mouth Zevran _felt_ the heat of the glare, even if Cadryn couldn't fully dispel the ridiculous grin from his face. "At least you won't have to pretend to smile while greeting the masses."

Cadryn's grip on his lower back shifted, a playful increase in the pressure there, hinting at the pinch he wasn't allowing himself. "I'm going to forget you said that, and pretend its the lyrium making me hear things."

Laughing, Zevran decided to end the conversation before he got himself into any further trouble. "Well, then. Since we are going to be leaving together, we can speak after you have been sufficiently paraded in front of the populace. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you and make sure no one gets a clear shot. Not without paying me a great deal of coin, anyhow."

Just a slight nod in response, but the emotion in green eyes said enough. Letting his hand slide across the small of Zevran's back as they parted, Cadryn made his way to the last of their companions before heading out the door.


	5. Scars

A/N: I'm not so sure about this one, but I wrote it. Non-explicit sexytimez, themes you should expect in discussing Zevran and his past. Knowing a thing must have happened at some point and talking about a particular instance of it are two very different things. Also, I play a little loose and fast with magic here. Considering Cleansing Aura can heal injuries, I think it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to conceive of a directed application of it.

* * *

Zevran retired from the festivities early to see that his few possessions ended up in Cadryn's room at Eamon's estate, and because, while he loved a good party, this wasn't quite what he thought of as one. Too many expectations, and the way some of the noblewomen eyed the soon-to-be Arl of Amaranthine made his fingers twitch, seeking out a concealed dagger. Nothing sexual in those expressions, no physical desire, but the way someone might size up prize winning livestock. Hanging from Cadryn's arm would complicate matters, would make their relationship more than the rumor it already was, and while Cadryn couldn't care less who knew Zevran understood that it could be used against him as a new Arl. So, assured that Cadryn and Alistair could handle any physical threat in such company, Zevran retreated, afraid that he would do some violence or say something untoward.

Cadryn stumbled in late in the evening, the lyrium smile faint but still present. He still moved as if perfectly well, and Zevran finally questioned him about it.

"Irving showed me something, very late last night, when Wynne decided I should all but overdose on lyrium. A most interesting application of certain spells. Ah," some of the light fled green eyes, the smile gentle, a little remorseful. "The specifics would bore you. Suffice to say, I've learned to heal bone, but I can only do it under the influence of a large dose of lyrium."

"Then, would you mind?" Zevran rolled his shoulder to indicate what he meant, getting an almost masochistic amusement from the novelty of the sensation. "The poison has yet to wear off."

When Cadryn nodded Zevran immediately pulled his tunic off, a very utilitarian motion compared to the usual display he made of disrobing. He settled on one edge of the bed, and Cadryn slid in behind him.

"It really doesn't hurt at all?" Cadryn ran a hand over the shoulder, a gentle caress, and Zevran leaned back into him.

"No sensation at all. Only pressure."

Cadryn made a curious noise in his throat, and asked, "What does this poison do at full strength?"

"Seizes the muscles, paralyzes the body, stops the heart. It is a waking death."

"And you thought it was a good idea to use this on yourself."

Zevran settled his right hand on Cadryn's thigh, began stroking with his thumb. "I knew what I was doing."

He felt Cadryn shrug. "We'd best take advantage of it, then. Lean forward a little."

It was strange, feeling the pieces of bone pulled toward each other, this time with no pain to mask the sensation. It was a disgusting feeling regardless, and it could not be over soon enough. Then Cadryn said, "This _will_ hurt, and I'm sorry."

The mage didn't wait for a response. At first it was the warm tingle of healing magic, but it intensified rapidly, a burning heat and a terrible pain delivered in tiny pinpricks. Zevran gritted his teeth so as not to cry out, but he couldn't stifle all sound. He blacked out, staring at the fire and praying _Maker, end this!_

He awoke shuddering and crying soundlessly, sitting up, wrapped in Cadryn's arms. When he could manage words he first said, "You did that to yourself?"

"Irving had to finish for me. I blacked out as well. No toxin to deaden the pain." Cadryn caressed the shoulder with just his fingers, laid a kiss in their shadow. "It will be stiff for a while. Go easy."

Zevran leaned back into Cadryn, relaxing as best he could under the ghost of pain. "How long will you be lucid?"

"I don't know." Cadryn curled around him, began trailing slow kisses up from that shoulder along his neck. The robes were suddenly an impediment, but Zevran could do nothing about them, trapped as he was. "I should already be crashing. Probably how little I normally use. You know, I saw Shianni today. We had a very... _interesting_ discussion."

"Hm? This should be good." Zevran tilted his head slightly to the right to give Cadryn more skin to work with. _Fast learner_.

"It was about us. You and I. She gave me some _advice,_" on that word Cadryn's right hand left his right shoulder, "some rather _promising _advice." A thumb ran down the underside of Zevran's right ear, and he shuddered, gave a satisfied sound something like a purr. "True, then." Cadryn's lips found the tip of his other ear, worked gently down the length of it nipping and teasing, and by the time they reached the base Zevran was quivering, groping for Cadryn's hand to hold himself up. There was an instant of fear, but it couldn't kill the _pleasure_ of that contact. The last time someone had touched his ears-- It was unfair to compare Cadryn, and Zevran resolved this would be the very last time.

"You're elsewhere," Cadryn muttered, close to his ear. "Its been what, two weeks? Don't tell me you're not craving this like I am."

"I...." How to say it? How to tell Cadryn he truly was second in _everything_? He loved Cadryn more than he loved Rinna, yes, because her acceptance of him had come with a most bitter ending, and she had haunted him too long, driven him to despair, and it sullied the memory of her. He was as good at manipulating Zevran as Taliesen had been, maybe better, but he only took advantage of it to good ends. And he looked nothing like _him_.... Similar in the size of his body and, well, _everything_, but Cadryn's build was sleeker, his face more angular.

He would never be rid of the haunting memories, the constant comparison, if he did not say something. Talking about Rinna's death had taught him this. "Very rarely, I am reminded of a mark, when I am with you. I had a very short list of men I knew in Antiva who were comparable to you, when I was trying to convince myself there was no more than lust between us. The longer I have known you, the further the list has shrunk—but one person remains on it, the one I wish to compare you to least of all. He was the son of a minor lord, and the contract had passed from cell to cell—no one could get close to him, for the man's family had no connections to the Crows, and because of this they were supremely paranoid. It was a point of disgrace for the entire guild, and Taliesen refused it many times. I took it against his wishes, because I had heard a rather promising rumor, and I had no qualms about using all of my abilities to get such a job done. You must understand, success would increase my standing greatly, and my reputation was all I really had.

"The man was fond of abusing his elven servants, I had heard, which is not so uncommon, but it is a position we are warned against putting ourselves in. I disregarded this advice, and entered his household as such. I spent only a week looking the perfect victim, inciting his wrath whenever I could and playing weak and frightened. There were some close calls with the makeup covering my tattoos, but everything went well otherwise. _Too_ well."

"You let him...." Cadryn's voice was utterly neutral, the same tone he had used in discussing all of Zevran's marks, not a carefully schooled tone but one that indicated he would reserve judgment for the full story.

With a shrug Zevran continued. "It was the only way to get him alone. Many nobles abuse their servants in such a fashion, but proof makes a scandal. But, yes. After the deed, before he dressed, so that any sounds would be mistaken for a second round. I was the perfect victim, after all."

"_You let him rape you_." Neutrality had fled for a sort of deadpan disbelief, an inability to process the concept.

"Can a whore be raped if she is being paid? I--"

"_Yes_, she can be," Cadryn interrupted. "And despite your upbringing and promiscuity, you're not a whore, have never been. You're a very powerful person, Zev, whether you see it or not, and that sort of violence is all about power."

The word left a sick feeling in his stomach, because Cadryn was right, and this hadn't been the first time but it was the only since he could properly defend himself. That was part of the point, after all—it had left a mark on him, one that had faded quickly but never completely left. "I will confess, killing him was more satisfying than usual, and I was perhaps a little messier than the job merited. The point is, though, that you are of a similar size in all regards, and he was the only other person to take advantage of the sensitivity of my ears."

Cadryn didn't respond right away, but he didn't draw away, either. Zevran desperately wanted to see his face, to better read the meaning in his hesitation, but settled for leaning into Cadryn's embrace again, hoping it was a encouraging gesture. Eventually the mage breathed, "_Maker._" Cadryn pushed away, retreating further onto the bed. "I'm sorry."

Zevran twisted around to face Cadryn, leaning on his right hand, positioned in a fashion that emphasized the sleek tone of his muscles—it was a conscious move. "Why? I tell you this so you know why I hesitate, so you do not doubt yourself or my interest. My _affection_." It was a hard word to say, but he knew he might have to say more by the end of it to renew Cadryn's enthusiasm. "You are not him, and I tell you this to help remove the mark of him from my soul. You have taught me I cannot live in my past; I want to make new memories."

Uncertainty was not something he was used to seeing on Cadryn's face, because when the man hesitated in a decision he hid it well. This was more a look of one lost, a feeling Zevran knew all too well, so he offered some direction, moving toward Cadryn until he was straddling the human, and but a breath away. Zevran forced him to make eye contact, tilting the man's face in his direction with a hand on one cheek, "I still want you," and kissed him.

Cadryn responded in kind, digging one hand into Zevran's hair and settling the other at the base of his spine, pulling him closer. He resumed his work on the elf's ears, and had Zevran gasping and trembling again in short order. Through the night Cadryn clearly focused on pleasing _him_, as much emotion in their lovemaking as on the night before facing the Archdemon, though it lacked the urgency. Past a certain point it was clear he meant for Zevran to take the lead tonight, and if when Zevran finally took him the assassin was a little harsher than he had ever been, Cadryn did not remark on it.


	6. Relativity

The next day Cadryn was, indeed, delirious from the near-overdose of lyrium, and as such he missed Sten's departure. All that needed to be said between them had been, so Sten had no second thoughts or hesitation as he boarded the ship, only that his new-found _kadan_ had a difficult life ahead of him. On arrival Sten had thought the Fereldan people much like sheep, easily frightened and easily led, but now he realized they were far more like goats, stubborn and foolish and quick to conflict, unwilling to back down, but also unable to defend themselves against a serious threat. Cadryn had, for a time, made them into wolves, a ferocious and loyal pack, but in the two weeks since the Archdemon's defeat Sten saw that hold begin to fray. How tenuous such a hold was, how little the people realized was in their own capacity. Adequacy, certainly, and sometimes greatness, but they required so great a push—why Par Vollen had so much trouble with the men and women of Thedas Sten understood, now, because weakness could easily turn to strength. It only required the destruction of a handful of men leading them.

Sten left with very few possessions aside from his armor and Asala, so the slight imbalance in his bags was most disconcerting. He went immediately to his quarters on the ship and sought out the source of this unexpected weight—a package of white linen, perhaps a hand on each side, tied shut in a careful knot, with the fabric twisted on the bottom such that a single square double-wrapped the contents. Inside the first layer, a note, in Cadryn's hand:

_Even in your early challenges to my command, you have been a most effective and useful comrade. It has been an honor to fight by your side, and I sincerely wish to see you again outside the battlefield._

_I trust you will report there is some worth to the people of Ferelden, contents of this package being a reminder. Sadly, they will not last the entire journey to stand as evidence, so please enjoy as you will._

Beneath the second layer, two dozen cookies, each of a different fashion. Sten smiled, and very nearly laughed aloud. _Kadan_, indeed.

"You sure about this? And are you sure you want us here?"

Cadryn smiled at Alistair in as reassuring a fashion as he could manage at the moment. "You had an audience for meeting Goldana, and I consider you my closest friend, Alistair. If anyone has a right to be here, its you. Leliana put the most work into this, I understand, so it seems only right she should be here. And Zevran has bared all his dark secrets to me, he deserves a few in return." Cadryn gestured to the mabari. "If you'd rather not be present, Alistair, I'm sure Cassius could use some more exercise." The dog grinned up at him, panting.

"No," Alistair muttered. "No, if this turns out anything like Goldana, you'll need all the support you can get."

Before the two Wardens could get maudlin Leliana said, "So, what are we waiting for? Knock."

"Can I help you?"

Heavily accented, but a rich voice in a somewhat deeper tone than Cadryn's. Cadryn turned, and the man stood a few paces away, just outside the burnt-out and half-fallen smithy, cleaning his hands on a white rag. The man was maybe an inch or two shorter than Cadryn, but they had the same frame, though this man was bulkier with muscle and fat, just on the soft side of Alistair's build. And his eyes were a touch bluer than Cadryn's, his face harsher, but his close-shorn hair was the same auburn.

When no one spoke up the man said, "Smith's closed, Warden. Clearly. You have some other business here?"

Cadryn took a step closer. "When did Atlan pass his smithy to you?"

"Died not six months ago." The man wiped at his face with the rag, but only succeeded in smearing the soot around. He wore no tattoos.

"And Dahlia?"

"Gnawed up by Darkspawn, just 'ere you crossed the market. I was trapped in the smithy as it was burnin' down, saw everything, but could do nothin'. Not that I would've asked for help for her—she was old, and you clearly had bigger problems. Thought that dragon had you for sure, when I saw it swoop down 'pon the bridge." The man stopped in all motions, even breathing, for a moment, his hands twitched once and he dropped the rag. "Andraste's knickers—you're _Cadryn_."

The mage managed a smile, clearly strained. "And you're Jes's eldest."

"Sigram." The man laughed, closed the distance between them and embraced Cadryn heartily. Cadryn did not respond right away, clearly uncomfortable with the contact. "He told us you was _dead_! Maleficar, killed by Templars. Jes wouldn't speak to him, only to Gran, took it to his grave and never regretted a single day of her silence. But here you are!" Sigram pushed away, laughing. "Hero of Ferelden! That's spittin' in his face for sure. And your friends, eh? The warrior and the elf I recognize, saw them with you, but you had a different beauty with you." He smiled charmingly at Leliana, and she offered a humoring expression.

"Leliana has been an invaluable friend. As she was chronicling our adventures, I thought it best to leave her behind—no one else could tell the story so thoroughly or artfully, so I thought if the task fell to others, she would be best suited to pass on our knowledge." He gestured to Alistair and introduced him by name, then as, "Fellow Warden and my sworn brother."

"And very nearly king of Ferelden," Alistair added, "but we avoided that one handily."

"And Zevran is my partner in all things." From his surprised expression Sigram clearly understood the implication, but kept any opinion hidden. Cadryn stood stiffly as before, but his tone changed, a little split-second pause between each word as if he had trouble with the question, the lines around his eyes tightening. "Jes stopped talking to him?"

"Soon as we found out," Sigram said, smile shifting to one slightly proud, still elated. "I was old enough to remember when it happened. We came in to visit with a new babe, and when Jes heard we left right quick. She tracked down that little elf girl you used to play with to ask where you'd gone, as Gran wouldn't say what made you leave, but she didn't know a blessed thing. Gran told use after he passed that he only regretted not knowing his grandchildren better, and if that's all he cared about the bastard can rot." To emphasize his point, Sigram spat to one side. "Jes and Obie raised us up to know blood's thicker than anything, even the chant."

"How are they?" Even Alistair could tell the tone of Cadryn's voice was too polite, too hesitant, and Leliana and Zevran exchanged a concerned glance behind Cadryn's back. The mage's reaction wasn't matching up with what Sigram was telling him, and the encounter clearly discomfited him more the longer it went on, obvious to his more observant companions. But how could they stop it?

"Jes is fine, waiting on Mel to come of age in a year or two and marry her off. You never met Melia, did you? Sweetest babe she was, and spitfire now. Obie was at Highever when it was sieged, doing some last minute work before the men rode out for Ostagar. Farrier, he was. It was quick, so we heard." He clapped Cadryn on the shoulder, laughing excitedly. "They'll be _thrilled! _You've got to visit for First Day!"

"I'll try," Cadryn said, but the words sounded strained to his companions. "I have to leave for Amaranthine in a while, but I'll try to see you again before then. It was good to meet you again."

Sigram caught him in a warm embrace again, laughing softly. "Sure was, sure was. And I'll hold you to that!"

They parted awkwardly, Cadryn trying very hard to look pleased, Sigram returning to the salvage of his forge with a supremely satisfied smile, humming.


	7. Confessions

A/N: Cadryn's backstory is probably pretty boring, so if you want to skip this chapter, I totally understand. However, if you are enjoying, I would request that you review, and tell me why (or why not). All writing is an effort to improve, after all.

* * *

"Thank you."

These were not the first words Zevran expected out of Cadryn in their first moments alone since early in the morning. It was soft and breathy, in the hall just outside Cadryn's room (their room, being honest with himself), one of Cadryn's hands on the small of his back, gentle in pressure and forceful in manner—Zevran knew it as a possessive gesture by now, something unconscious, and it amused him to no end. "Please, do tell me what I have done to earn your gratitude, so I may do it repeatedly to take advantage of." Zevran smiled up at him, a wicked sort of look.

"Forcing me to meet Sigram." Cadryn took advantage of his height to push open the door in front of them. "I would never have done so on my own."

"I thought you were too accepting of me not to have some darkness of your own," Zevran said. "Aside from what I have seen in you as the Warden."

"I assure you, every bit of the Warden is part of me as well. We are not two separate people." A fire was already going on the hearth, and Cadryn's attention drifted that direction. "As for darkness.... No, Jowan was before you. You wouldn't know. And you've spilled everything to me, you deserve some trust as well."

"I have said before that I will ask no more of you than you are willing to give. It applies in this as well."

Cadryn looked back to him, and gave the elf a thin smile. "You deserve as much as you have given."

Breaking away, Zevran made his way for the padded bench by the fire. "In that case, I will confess some curiosity." Cadryn followed, and sat heavily next to him, staring off into the middle-distance, clearly elsewhere. This went on for quite a while, and Zevran grew uncomfortable with the expression—Cadryn brooding rarely turned out positively. He did his best to gain the mage's attention with touch, but got no reaction until he ran a hand across Cadryn's cheek, tracing one half of his tattoo. Then green eyes focused on him, sharply, and with uncharacteristic roughness Cadryn seized him for a kiss. The mage was not strong enough to seriously hurt him, but the grip on his shoulders was surprisingly painful. The kiss, however, was adequately intense to make up for any discomfort. Cadryn ended up with his back pressed against one arm of the bench, Zevran straddling him, and Zevran made that intensity _his._ When their lips parted they simply stared at each other, breathless, and whatever had settled in Cadryn's heart before was mostly gone.

"Now that I have made my point," Zevran murmured, and his tone drew a familiar look of longing from Cadryn. Zevran shifted, however, to curl up against Cadryn's chest, seated between his legs. "Continue with your story."

Cadryn took a deep breath. "The beginning is simple enough, if painful. My family was very devout. Not in the same fashion as most. They were thoroughly entrenched in the _crazy_ kind of devout. Most people are nervous around magic, but no one hesitates to hunt down a healer when needed, and no one balks at having a few mages around in times of conflict. My sister, Jessamyn, is several years older than me, and she married young. She and her husband moved to Highever after Sigram was born, and I was very, very young, so I don't remember her all that well. So she played very little part in this. My parents thought magic abhorrent, so when I began showing signs of it, Atlan decided he could discipline it out of me. At five I knew the entire chant of light. He beat me any time I showed signs of anything deviant. Once with a hot iron rod meant for use in his forge. That's what the scars on my back are from. There was but one place I could escape him: the Alienage. He was an incurable racist, among other things, but we didn't live far from the Alienage, so I hid there. Shianni and her cousins caught me hiding in a neighbor's attic, that's how I know them. An older elf, an apostate, taught me how to hide my magic, taught me some healing so I could take care of myself. That only got me into more trouble, though, because my wounds were supposed to be atonement for the sins of ages past. Around ten, I got a bright idea: I ran away.

"Atlan apparently reported me as an abomination or some nonsense. A squad of Templars found me frozen half to death in a barn outside Denerim, and I was fortunate that their leader was suspicious of Atlan's claims. He knew the marks of abuse, too, so instead of putting me to the sword he took me to the Circle.

"Here I thought I had found paradise. Nothing the Chantry made us do or refused us could possibly be as terrible as Atlan's abuse, I thought. I wasn't particularly good at making friends, but it didn't matter, at first. I was 'farmboy' because of my size, and that healing was all I knew at an age where most apprentices have just started accidentally setting fires. I rescued an apprentice a year older than me from bullying by size alone, I was so much bigger and stronger than the other apprentices, and I could take pain in a way none of them could begin to fathom. I got in a great deal of trouble for fighting, but as I had used my fists and they had used magic, they were the worse off. I wasn't one for breaking rules. But that was how I acquired Jowan." Here Cadryn smirked. "Acquired is just the right term—he followed me around like a lost dog, and I found him something of an annoyance. But he was older, and he'd been there longer, so he helped me with my studies. He's a much better teacher than he is a mage, I surpassed him easily, earned Irving's attention and the ire of many other students when he took me on as his student directly. Jowan became my closest friend, like a brother to me—like Alistair is now. These were some of the best years of my life, and some of the worst, because my eyes opened to the world around me. The scars of my early years had blinded me, but that Templar who spared me, a Ser Aduran, he sent letters checking in on me from time to time, and once he heard I was Irving's apprentice he came to visit. He told me that magic was a tool, one I couldn't be robbed of, and like any tool I could build as easily as destroy. Just as his sword or his smite could defend or destroy. We talked for a long time, and after that everything was different. I saw what the Chantry was doing to us.

"You said it best yourself: a gilded cage remains a cage. They try to keep the Harrowing a secret, the ritual all mages must go through to graduate from their apprenticeship, but it is torture on its own. They send apprentices into the Fade to fight a demon, and frighteningly few of them make it. It does nothing but thin our ranks. There is a Templar in the Harrowing chamber with a sword on your neck in the real world—I could feel it, the entire time, even in the Fade. It was Cullen, that crazed Templar we met trapped in the Tower, and it was his first time attending a Harrowing. We spoke afterward, and at the time I was glad it was him. He was very easygoing for a Templar, if naïve.

"I wasn't sure what, but I had determined that, as soon as I could beg permission from Irving, I would leave the Circle Tower to find some work elsewhere, something officially approved but _outside_. Duncan's presence thrilled me. I didn't want to fight, but I would be foolish not to acknowledge that I was _good_ at it, and he offered me chains instead of a cage, _long_ chains. But I hadn't decided. And then Jowan...." Cadryn fell silent, wrapping his arms around Zevran, who pushed against them to look up into the mage's face.

"If you need to stop, I understand."

Cadryn gave him a weak smile. "I should've seen the signs. Looking back, its very clear. Jowan came to me terrified that he would be made Tranquil, because he had overheard some of the senior enchanters discussing it. Rumor held that he was a blood mage. And he was in love with a Chantry initiate, a girl named Lily—they needed a full member of the Circle to help them escape. To destroy Jowan's phylactery and get them out. I couldn't say no, and I don't think I would have even if I had known.... He betrayed us, in the end, Lily and I both. Jowan _was_ a blood mage, and he had lied to us. He ran, leaving both of us to our fates. Lily is imprisoned, now, for aiding a blood mage. I was fortunate enough to have Duncan. I hadn't even spoken to him about joining the Grey Wardens, but I seized on the opportunity to save myself, and to escape a smaller cage."

"This is the Jowan from Redcliffe, yes? The one Eamon refused to pardon?"

Cadryn nodded. "The same. Loghain offered him freedom in return for poisoning the Arl, and he did so. Who wouldn't trust Teyrn Loghain at the time, aside from two angry Grey Wardens and a witch of the wilds? And Teagan, bless him. So Jowan entered Eamon's household as a tutor for Eamon's son, Connor, who is a mage. Eamon's wife wanted to keep him from the Circle, and I can't blame her. Connor breached the Fade somehow, dealt with a demon to sustain his father in spite of the poison, and the demon used him to terrorize Redcliffe. Eamon's wife blamed Jowan, had him tortured and imprisoned. So we found him on our way in, and naturally I let him go. He had lied to me, even knowing how I felt about the Circle and the Chantry, but he was still my sworn brother. He helped us save Connor, in the end. We would never have made it to the Circle in time, and the only way to free Connor was to enter the Fade and confront the demon. I let Jowan use blood magic on me, to do that... it required a life, which Eamon's wife offered, and a significant portion of my own blood."

"This is why this Jowan appeared to you in the gauntlet, yes?" Zevran asked. "You still think you could have saved him. You must know by now, no one can be saved from their own foolishness."

"No," Cadryn said. "I could have used the right of conscription on him. Instead of sending him back to the Circle. He wasn't among the dead, so he must have been sent elsewhere, or he ran, or he died—I simply hope they didn't make him tranquil. I could have told him to _run_, I could have _made_ him run."

Zevran settled against the human again, laying his head against Cadryn's shoulder, splaying one hand on the man's chest—it was an uncharacteristically feminine gesture, but it conveyed a certain emotion, and he hoped it would help him make a point. "I will never forget what happened to Rinna. I have spoken to you of the satisfaction of ending a life, of knowing that it fails under _your _blade—Taliesen did the deed, but it was as much my kill as his. Killing Rinna was the greatest sense of satisfaction I have ever experienced, because she was a traitor in my mind, a traitor to everything I was. I understand this sense of loss—it is not merely someone beloved, but a part of your life it seems you can never enjoy again. All those fond memories are tainted." Cadryn's embrace tightened ever so slightly. "Time might dull the pain—it did not for me—but it will never go away. Yet there is something to ease that ache."

Cadryn made a curious noise, and Zevran rolled his eyes before pushing up to look at him face-to-face. He understood, because he had been through this himself, and very recently, that pain dulled a man's wit, but he had hoped he would not need to spell his meaning out for Cadryn.

"Those chains you spoke of, you are free of them. You are considered a _hero_ now, and if you chose to leave the Wardens behind no one could stop you, not even the Chantry. As I am free of mine, thanks to you. We still carry those chains, and they will haunt us, but they no longer bind us to one course or rule our lives. What we do with our future is up to _us_."

"Us," Cadryn echoed, smiling faintly.

"Since you are rebuilding the Wardens, I have no need to run or hide from the Crows. Only a fool would try something, surrounded by such a group. And so, you are stuck with me." Zevran settled down against Cadryn again after placing a light kiss, a teasing touch, at the edge of his mouth. They sat in silence for a time, Zevran pleased with his accomplishment, turning Cadryn's mood.

"That's what made me trust you," Cadryn eventually said. "The way you talked about choice, about never having it, that you seized upon the chance for freedom. I would never have looked for understanding in you, until then. We have been in similar places, I thought, if not the same  
location."

"And what drew you to my arms?" Zevran asked, playfully. "Surely it was not just my charm—it seemed to have so little effect on you, early."

"Until that point, you were a useful annoyance," Cadryn said, and Zevran elbowed him. Laughing, Cadryn continued. "Afterward, you were a friend, and a bright point of levity in a sea of darkness. You commented on it yourself, more than once, how grim I seemed. Just as the task seemed impossible and I was about to engage in self-pity, you would flirt in some ridiculous fashion or taunt one of our companions. There were times when everyone else fell prey to those sorts of moods, and you refused to. That was more help to me than your skill with a blade ever was. And the way you carry yourself."

"Hm?"

"The way you move. The air about you. Drives me _crazy_." Cadryn worked a hand under Zevran's tunic to rest on bare flesh. "I've never been attracted to women _or_ men, honestly. I mean, I can appreciate a person's charms for what they are, and I have certain _urges_ like anyone else, but whatever it is that makes people seek out the companionship of others for more than physical release—never felt it. I was too motivated, in everything, I suppose. That momentum was destroying me. And as always, you were there, offering exactly what I needed before I realized it."

Zevran reached for Cadryn's free hand as the one under his tunic found an especially sensitive spot in the hollow of his left hip. "You make it sound as if I am the hero."

After planting a kiss in Zevran's hair, Cadryn murmured, "You saved me from something far worse than Crows or an Archdemon."

"You did the same for me. I sincerely wanted to die, and I have never had a better reason to live than now."

When Cadryn murmured that word into his hair, _love_, Zevran managed not to flinch. It was truer by the day, but he still could not admit it to himself. Someday, perhaps, because Cadryn was teaching by example what it meant and how to express it, but not yet. Love would bring pain, so what they had was a _partnership_, a _future_, in Zevran's mind.

"It was the way you treated me," Zevran said. "The others called me 'elf' instead of by name, save Alistair and Leliana. This I expected outside of Antiva, because I had made a name in the Crows but knew I would be seen for my race elsewhere. I suppose I had hoped for something more in freedom, but I was 'elf' again, untried and disrespected. There was none of that in you. And when you asked for stories... I thought I would drive you off with them, but you just listened with that look you get, that neutral one. It seemed I would have to _disprove_ myself to you, not prove myself. And I had never been treated such before. And, aside from the everything, because you are a very handsome man, that was not simply a line to lure you in, you have this undertone of power in everything you are and everything you do. And your voice. I have had more words out of you tonight than in the entire time I have known you, I think, and I am still not tired of your voice."

_And the safety_, but Zevran didn't say this. It was new, something he'd felt only since Taliesen's death. In Cadryn's presence, when they were alone, he knew a sense of peace, a sense of being _cared_ for. Instincts developed in early childhood made sure he was alert and suspicious at all times, but in Cadryn's arms, as now, he felt at ease. He did not need to keep a watchful eye, because Cadryn would defend him as fiercely as he would defend Cadryn. It was this sensation that let him doze off, curled against Cadryn's chest and staring into the fire.

"This is a first," Cadryn muttered, and when Zevran's only response was a contented, sleepy noise, he smiled. When he thought about it, this made sense: Cadryn had been in much worse shape after the battle with the Archdemon, but he'd also been in bed and attended by some of Ferelden's finest healers since. It had taken some time to wring the details of Zevran's condition out of Wynne, and the assassin had been up and about and hardly seen to in those two weeks. He hadn't forced Zevran to take it easy because the assassin showed no signs of wear, aside from his shoulder, but for this to happen he was clearly exhausted.


	8. Confessions, Pt 2

A/N: Somewhat explicit, this is where the story earns that M rating. But it has a purpose. If that's not your thing, then skip this chapter--it won't disrupt your understanding of the story, it just removes a single element from the relationship.

* * *

Zevran woke to the rhythm that had chased him through dreams, from a vision of warmth and security to the nightmare he had every night, and on into what promised to be a delightfully lewd fantasy. Behind everything, this rhythm. For a moment he thought he must be going mad, or the concussion had done some permanent damage, for this sound to follow him into waking. It was joined by a rumbling felt in one ear and a familiar voice in the other. "Returned to the land of the living?"

On opening his eyes Zevran saw that the fire had burned down to coals, and he had time to appreciate the exquisite agony his sleeping position left him with. The previous night came rushing back in a jumble of words and images, and Zevran began berating himself, for he had wasted a perfect chance to bed Cadryn.

And here he was, in exactly the same position. "You seem a little groggy, still," Cadryn said. "I must insist that if you're going to fall asleep again, you let me move you to the bed."

"How long...?" Really, sensory intake was all that processed properly right now, and the proximity of Cadryn, who incited all sorts of delightful reactions and frightening emotions.

"Its been about an hour since the scent of baking bread dissipated, so breakfast is clearly over. I--" Zevran regained enough of his senses to roll over in place without hurting Cadryn, rolled back the collar of Cadryn's robes with one hand and began tracing the man's collarbone with his lips. "Ah. You do this every time you wake up in someone's arms?"

"No, but I intend to make a habit of it." Zevran flicked the collar of the robes with the tips of his fingers in agitation. "This impedes my work. I want it gone."

Laughing, Cadryn said, "That will make today's meetings very awkward, Zev." In response Zevran shifted his hips forward. With a sharp intake of breath Cadryn added, "They can wait."

The ludicrous complexity of a mage's robes gave Zevran time to clear his mind, crossing the room to palm a small bottle of oil, and make it back in time to still Cadryn's hands and unlace the last tie with his teeth. A nervous joke from their first time together gave just a hint of innocence and amusement to Zevran's smile--_"The robes don't just mark us, they're a well-designed chastity device,"_ Cadryn had said. And then the mage had made up for the inexperience of a virgin with enthusiasm.

Before the mage could shrug his robes off, an instinctive and unconscious motion, Zevran made a quick trail of kisses back up, crossing each shoulder in turn, sliding his hands over flesh to remove the cloth in advance of his mouth. The robes were tossed—_somewhere_. Cadryn caught Zevran's chin in one hand, pulling him up for a kiss, and then those hands fled downward, seeking the flesh under Zevran's tunic, began easing the cloth up, caressing and teasing on the way. They had to part for a moment when the fabric passed between them, and Zevran took advantage of it to remove what little remained on Cadryn. That left Zevran standing in his now too tight breeches, and Cadryn in all his glory. When he went for the ties Cadryn's hands stopped him, the human drew him in for another kiss, quick, passionate, then unfairly went for the ears again. One hand set to teasing, stroking through the leather, until the restrictive clothing became painful. "You are a cruel man," Zevran hissed.

Cadryn paused in nipping and kissing at neck and ear long enough to mutter, "Tell me you don't enjoy it."

Zevran didn't consider himself a masochist—not in the truly deviant sense of the word, and not anymore—because he had experienced both harsh and searing pain, and a gentle, passionate touch. He preferred the latter, but this denial game made pain erotic again. Afraid it would push him over the edge too soon, he began applying a gentle pressure to Cadryn's shoulders with his hands, and had Cadryn laying back on the rug soon enough. The journey from lips to hips he made with mouth and fingers, refusing to touch Cadryn's erection with any part of his body until he took it into his mouth—part of this denial game. When he began working with his tongue, Cadryn moaned, and by the quaking of the man's hips was trying not to thrust up.

And when Cadryn was on the verge of release Zevran slowed, then stopped altogether and withdrew. He teased and touched with a hand, waiting for his lover to calm, finally went for the oil to slick two fingers, then laid the bottle on its side and pushed it away to roll within Cadryn's reach—he had plans, after all. Cadryn finally said, "If you want to talk about cruelty, ah--" The mage fell silent with a sudden intake of breath, because Zevran took that as his cue to slide a finger in, stroking gently, searching for a particular spot. Target found, he slid in the second finger, and then took Cadryn into his mouth again.

This time Cadryn twined his fingers into Zevran's hair, taking a firm grip, and once very close to release could no longer keep himself from thrusting up. But he did so only once, and Zevran was prepared for it, after this withdrawing again. Cadryn made a disappointed sound, almost like a sob, but this denial game gave Zevran what he wanted: Cadryn painfully hard, nearly insensate with need. Zevran moved back up to kiss Cadryn, who responded with all the intensity Zevran desired. This man ruled his heart, and was a quick learner in the art of lovemaking, but it pleased Zevran to know he could still make the man all but delirious with lust.

"I want you," Zevran whispered, then resumed his exploration of Cadryn's mouth. In lingering he forced Cadryn to calm some, because by size alone the human could seriously hurt him, so Zevran needed Cadryn to have just a little more control than he did right now. The man's hands found those laces at Zevran's waist, made short work of them, and between the two of them they removed the very last obstacle keeping bare flesh apart. Zevran moved to rest his head against Cadryn's shoulder for a moment, and sighed with his sudden freedom, rubbing his erection briefly against Cadryn's—the breeches had grown most uncomfortable, and despite the momentary pause and the sense returning to Cadryn's eyes, the man was still just as hard. A familiar mix of fear and desire in anticipation was exhilarating. This would hurt, regardless of how gentle Cadryn was and how used to accommodating him Zevran was, and the man could conceivably do serious damage. But Cadryn would not, because he was a gentle lover, and Zevran _wanted_ him, even that pain—perhaps the assassin was a masochist, but only in this.

When slick fingers finally entered him Zevran moaned, thrusting back to meet the hand as fingers probed and stretched, paying special attention to a particular spot, but once they could move freely withdrew. Cadryn sat up, rolling to his knees slowly, pushing Zevran with a hand on one shoulder and a brief, passionate kiss. The change in angle would give both of them more control, something Zevran hadn't thought of—the elf smiled gratefully, almost shyly, at this. Cadryn used what remained of the oil on his hand to slick his erection, then Zevran lowered himself onto it, slowly, giving himself time to adjust. When Cadryn pulled away he did so almost fully, shifting his hips slightly to readjust, catching that sensitive place when he thrust back in. Zevran made a quiet, pleased noise in his throat, not quite a moan, and once they established a rhythm one of the human's hands trailed down to work Zevran's hardness, matching that pace.

Great as the sex was, it was this full sensation Zevran craved, just as much as the moment of orgasm or the look of ecstasy on Cadryn's face. A physical representation of what he felt in his heart. Never before had it been such, and it was what had frightened him, that first night with Cadryn. What was meant to be a moment of release, a bit of thoughtless pleasure between two friends, had clearly been something much more, something intense and half a metaphor, nearly transcendental There was a certainty, here, that Cadryn experienced the same. All this a tangle of things felt and thought, only partly understood, and once the pace quickened and he drew close the words just slipped out breathless, in Antivan, _"Love you--"_

Cadryn came almost instantly, curling around him, embrace drawing tight, and Zevran followed with a cry at the sensation of it, spilling himself across Cadryn's stomach. They remained like that for a while, still joined, breathless and clinging desperately to each other. With the hand not trapped between them Cadryn unconsciously began tracing one half of the tattoos down Zevran's back while the last few pleasurable spasms and shudders passed between them.

As usual, the muzzy haze of afterglow dwindled first for Zevran, and he eased back slowly, far enough to make eye contact, to cup Cadryn's cheek in one hand and trace the tattoos there with a thumb—it was becoming an affectionate gesture. Green eyes seemed to sparkle a little more than expected, as if on the verge of tears, but nothing came of it and Zevran didn't remark. Words said in passion were different from words said by choice and aware, truer in heart but perhaps less so in mind, and yet better than words unsaid. He wouldn't try to cover the slip of the tongue, Zevran decided, but let it stand.

He did love Cadryn, after all. Enough to live for him. With everything the mage had been through in the past year, if a word or two on emotions unbidden could bring him this much joy, then it might be worth even the pain of loss, like the initial pain of their joining. Still, he could dance around it, be a little coy. "I was not aware you spoke Antivan."

"Enough," Cadryn managed. "I had a surplus of free time in the tower."

"Well, it is true. Hard to say, but true." Zevran embraced the man again, draping his arms over Cadryn's shoulders.

Cadryn responded with a brief tightening of the embrace, still some distance from fully regaining his senses. Zevran nuzzled against his neck, drawing up to his ear, and caught the earring there between his lips for just a second—something broke, and Cadryn couldn't hold back a sob.

"It's _over_," the human said, voice cracking. "It's really _over_. We're safe, and free."

The sob was followed by another, almost a choking sound, but it was a sound of relief. Cadryn had been strong enough to comfort a bereaved Templar-come-Warden, direct an angry and motivated apostate, guide a wayward Sister, heal a damaged qunari, keep afloat a dwarf attempting to drown his past, enlighten an elder-and-wiser mage, to teach a homicidal golem and a suicidal assassin the value of life, unite a nation verging on civil war under supernatural threat and its disparate allies. Zevran had begun to wonder if the mask that was the Warden would never break, but here it was finally cracking apart.

The tears were brief, a handful of minutes, but when it was over Cadryn was clearly spent in heart as Zevran felt in body. So they remained a while longer, embracing one another, Zevran holding Cadryn's head to the crook of his neck in a comforting gesture. It was, of course, only once a wound was open that it could begin to heal. As Cadryn had helped him, he would do what he could.

After a long while Cadryn pushed away and they drew apart. Sorrow still caught in Cadryn's throat, but it had nothing to do with the words--"I think Eamon's going to need a new rug in here by the time we leave."

Zevran laughed, Cadryn smiled at a joke well received, and the moment was over.


	9. Warning

"You're late."

It was enough to dispel any lingering sorrow or doubt. _I'm on_, as if entering a stage, and Cadryn strode to Oghren's side with the Warden's easy swagger, something grown out of his own cocksuredness from his time as an apprentice and matured into a projection of confidence and control. It was both lie and truth: Cadryn was that sure of himself, but any notion of being cocky had died long ago. "I am on time," Cadryn said, words coming out clipped and careful. "But just barely. And I see you're surprisingly sober."

The dwarf crossed his arms, glowering up over one shoulder. "Ten more minutes and I was gonna start in on it. And the less time we spend gabbing at each other, the sooner I get to remedy that."

"We'll be brief as we can," Cadryn said. "And thank you, Oghren."

"Its a blasted sad day when I'm the only person around sodding practical enough to trust with something like this."

Cadryn smiled. "Think on our other companions for a moment. Who remains who wasn't cloistered or doesn't lean to the impractical? Only you. And I sadly fall into the former category. I would have asked Teagan for help, but I couldn't find him. And you've a far sight more structured military experience than any of us, that insight is invaluable."

Oghren jabbed a gloved finger into the air, pointing at Cadryn. "And don't you sodding forget it!"

"Every round, Oghren. Honestly. And I'll roll you back to Eamon's estate in a wheelbarrow if I must."

"You'll leave me in some whore's bed is what you'll do!"

They left Eamon's estate generously gifted with schematics and maps for Arl Howe's estates in Amaranthine, and spent the day meeting with crafters and artisans arranging for the refurbishment of some structures and the construction of new ones. The Grey Wardens would have a permanent home, one suitable to operate from, and though the day proved terribly frustrating it was fruitful. The mantle of Warden Commander seemed a little lighter by the time they finished.

Cadryn returned to drop off the schematics and change into something less conspicuous than the mage's robes. While he was distinctive enough in height, the unusual color of his hair and eyes, and the tattoos on his face, these things would identify him far less than simply "mage", and Zevran was right. If he chose to present himself as something else, no one could stop him any more. He made a brief check on the others to see if anyone was interested in accompanying them, but Alistair was still under house arrest, Wynne's orders (they couldn't use the same neat trick to heal Alistair's leg, seeing as nothing was actually _broken_, and they didn't have a healer riding high on a lyrium overdose to channel the magic). Leliana disapproved, of course, but didn't say so, and didn't come along. And Zevran was, amusingly enough, still asleep. Cadryn placed a gentle kiss, hardly more than a whisper of touch, on the elf's forehead, but it drew only a sleepy murmur. He left lighter of heart, but without sworn brother or lover.

The plan was to hit a few different bars down by the docks. Oghren was interested in visiting every tavern in Denerim, but they'd had no time before the Archdemon's death. Now he had a long moment to breathe before going back to Felsi, and he intended to take advantage of it.

The Pearl was their last stop, a familiar place for the height of intoxication, something they'd both agreed on in certainty that Sanga would ward off curious patrons. He hadn't been matching Oghren drink for drink, but Cadryn was well and rightly drunk by this point. Oghren was having another go at telling the joke that was too funny for words, a buxom dwarven woman giggling at his side, when it happened.

Someone slender dropped into a seat and slid it close to Cadryn. "Charming company you keep. What happened to the _others_?" Voice smooth and exotically accented, intonation that implied a hand on the chin leading his gaze around to her.

"Isabella," Cadryn said by way of greeting, giving as much a bow as he could manage while sitting without looking like an idiot—he wasn't that far gone yet. "I thought you'd left just before the Darkspawn reached Denerim. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

She settled one elbow on the table then leaned forward, placing her cheek in the cup of her hand, a pose that accentuated the curve of her stomach. "I heard you were successful," she said. "I confess I had my doubts, but I thought it prudent to offer my congratulations in person. And I hear you're to be an Arl soon?"

Glancing briefly to Oghren and finding him engrossed in his companion, so easily distracted under the influence, Cadryn told her, "So the rumor goes. I can't imagine you'd waste precious time on something like this. Why are you here?"

Her lips curled back to show just a flash of teeth in a wicked, beautiful grin. "So suspicious. I can't simply be fond enough of you to want to offer my congratulations? It's not as if we're strangers, after all." Everything about her in that instant, from the sultry suggestion in her voice to the way she sized him up with her eyes, clearly meant to invoke certain memories.

At once, she pulled him in and repulsed him—she was beautiful, and he was just intoxicated enough to be pliant to suggestion, but she wanted something. "It's not as if we're more than friendly acquaintances, either."

A brief laugh, little more than an exhalation. "Sweet thing. I wouldn't like you as much without that attitude, but we needn't play this game. I wanted to tell you that, should you ever have need of my unique services, I will happily lend them to you. For some equal exchange, of course, but I am offering you a priority of sorts. I understand running an arling can be demanding, and should you ever have need of me I will hop to."

_This_ merited at least a hint of a smile. "Thank you for the offer," Cadryn said. "I don't believe I'll be taking you up on it any time soon. Such a thing would only increase the mounting resistance against me among the nobility. That doesn't mean I won't lean on you in the future."

"I have been heard, however, and fairly. That is what I wished of you. And this I offer as a friendly acquaintance." Isabella dropped the arm supporting her head to lay across the table, and she leaned forward to an almost intimate position, sliding her other hand across Cadryn's thigh. To any outsider, it looked like she leaned in to offer some seductive proposition. "I have heard a rustling of feathers. Keep an eye on your bird—his feathers may be turning grey, but he'll never be fully rid of the black."

He returned her seductive look squarely with one of his own. "They'll be most upset to find this bird hunts with wolves now. But your warning is appreciated."

"You look like more woman than the Warden can handle," Oghren interrupted, slurring his words together almost grotesquely. "Now, old Oghren here, he's man enough for _two_."

That wicked grin graced Isabella's face again, but it was less seductive, more mischievous. She relaxed out of Cadryn's personal space and turned to face Oghren and his giggling companion. "You're most astute. I am indeed too much woman for the Warden _alone_." Her suggestive tone brought to Cadryn's booze-addled mind the sensation of smooth skin under his hands and catching a glimpse of Zevran's face caught in ecstasy over a subtly toned shoulder. "And unfortunately my tastes have grown rather specific of late." Rising gracefully, she passed one hand over Cadryn's shoulder, regarding him with a gentle smile and a fond gleam in her eyes. "Sweet thing. Do take care, and keep my offer in mind. And watch out for your bird. I would be most upset to hear something had happened to him."

She left, hips swaying slightly in a casually seductive gait, a little of the roll in her walk of a long-time sailor, and Cadryn couldn't help but watch her go. Oghren grumbled into his ale across the table, and after setting it down muttered, "Prissy tart."

"You have no idea."


	10. Eavesdropping

The warm body that slid into bed next to Zevran was just a little too furry, the hair close-cropped and coarse under his hands. Cassius didn't wait for the elf to fully rouse, instead licking his face and whining pitifully. Zevran tried to defend himself, pushing the dog away, and Cassius moved obediently but whined again, which answered the first question he meant to posit the beast with

Muscles ached in protest when he sat up, but Zevran pushed himself up and out of bed regardless. After their first stay, just before the Landsmeet, Eamon personally had a talk with Zevran about Fereldan morality and just what was an appropriate state of dress to venture into the halls in during the middle of the night. If anyone but Eamon himself had asked, Zevran would've defiantly continued to demonstrate the inherent dignity of the masculine form (no one would've looked twice in Antiva, save in appreciation). Now, he went searching for a tunic _just long enough_, and belted on his daggers out of paranoia. Ridiculous as it might look, he wouldn't leave without them.

Once Zevran opened the door for him Cassius bounded out and ahead, eagerly running down the hall and back, then waiting at the next door, while Zevran strolled down the hall, stretching languorously. Zevran planned to let him out through the kitchen entrance, as usual, but found it held ajar with a loose cobblestone pried from the courtyard outside. Lunging, he caught Cassius by the collar just in time to keep the mabari from escaping, and lurked around the corner listening, the dog looking up at him in confusion.

"Not a statue." Cadryn's voice, that peculiar accent that only an outsider to the language could really detect thicker, diction faintly muddled. "That seems too... _pretentious_."

"You think?" Zevran risked peering around the edge of the door, looking through the thin sliver out into the courtyard. Alistair and Cadryn sat on the front stairs, the not-quite-Templar a little further up, his bad leg stretched out. Cadryn sat further down, propping himself up on elbows braced against a step behind him. The mage was wearing plainclothes, but the pose still made the harder-than-expected lines of his body more prominent and striking. "Not a statue of him, at least. You're right about that." Alistair held out his hands as if straightening something on a wall. "Maybe just a plaque, with the Warden's heraldry. Do you think I could find someone to write some poetry, perhaps?"

"Just the oath," Cadryn said, and while they spoke neither of them really looked at each other, but Alistair stared off into the courtyard and Cadryn up at the stars. "It seems impersonal, but it should be. He wasn't the only one who died at Ostagar."

"You're right," Alistair conceded. "Very right. Maybe with a list of names? Didn't Riordan take an accounting of the dead?"

"I have it. With the rest of his papers. Do we still have his sword and shield?"

"They're in my room," Alistair said.

"Have them mounted. We'll display them in the Keep. That will be his personal memorial."

Zevran finally let Cassius go, and the dog wriggled his way through the door, bounding out. He gave a soft bark, perhaps in greeting, before running off urgently to do his business. Both of the men on the stairs looked to the open doorway, swinging back to close on the stone, and Zevran ducked out of sight.

"Zevran must have let him out. That means it's late. We really should head back in." Neither of them moved, and it seemed the words evaporated like mist almost as soon as they escaped, as neither of them acknowledged it again. They sat in silence for a while, and by the time Zevran resumed his spying, Cassius had padded back over and settled his massive bulk across Cadryn's legs, the mage idly scratching the mabari's head.

"We should do just the opposite," Alistair finally said. "The sword and shield get displayed in Highever, and the plaque at the Keep. That makes more sense."

"Where in Highever?" Cadryn asked. "Do you know anything about him? Where would be appropriate?"

"I'll find out," Alistair insisted, determination hardening his voice and his gaze momentarily. Cadryn just nodded, and they sat in companionable silence for a long while, during which Alistair turned his gaze upward as well.

Zevran became uncomfortable with the hour, afraid of being found by the kitchen staff when they started moving again, and uncomfortable with this eavesdropping. These were his friends, yes, and one of them his lover, but what had happened at Ostagar was a part of their lives he could never touch, aside from the ugly scars on Cadryn's chest, three arrow wounds and nearly his death save for Flemeth's miracles. That they'd repaid _her_ with death at Morrigan's behest still didn't sit well with Zevran, but he could live with the decision, and trusted whatever logic lead Cadryn to it.

"I have a... a weird question." Curious as he was about Alistair's uncertain tone, Zevran turned to leave, not wanting to silently intrude on a private moment any further. He owed them that much respect. Cadryn acknowledged the question with a curious, "Hn?" as was his standard response for idle questions.. "How old are you?" _That_ made Zevran pause, when he realized he had no idea. How little any of them knew of the Warden, when he had so easily pried their secrets from them, and held them in confidence and respect.... Zevran had gotten quite a bit, but it wasn't the whole of the story, certainly, and he got the impression Cadryn was hoarding the knowledge for some reason other than mistrust.

"Does it matter?" He tried to sound exasperated, but sounded nervous to Zevran, who had by now perfected the art of detecting the Warden's misdirection and sweet half-truths.

"No," Alistair said, drawing the syllable out slightly. "But I wondered. It didn't seem relevant during the Blight, so I didn't ask. Look, I know you don't like talking about yourself, but it would make me feel a lot better. I mean, you know more or less everything there is to know about me."

"Guess," Cadryn challenged, a little more of the slur slipping into his voice.

"Twenty-six, at least. You're too grounded to be younger."

"That's why I've never mentioned it" Zevran could hear the smirk in Cadryn's voice without looking. "I turned nineteen on the second day of our forced march to Denerim. My Harrowing was my eighteenth birthday."

"You're kidding," Alistair laughed a little as he said it, a surprised sound. "Really?"

"Really." A heavy sigh, disappointed. "And if you make anything of it, I'll go to bed and keep everyone up all night, thick stone walls be damned."

"Happy belated birthday, I suppose?" Laughter in Alistair's voice, too, clearly taunting, uncaring of the threat that would've had him blushing and uncomfortable in other company. "What are they getting kids nowadays?"

With a scoff Cadryn shot back, "There aren't that many years between us, _grandfather_."

"Someone really should inform Zevran he's robbing the cradle." And Alistair couldn't hold back a little laughter once the words escaped him. Zevran chuckled a little at the joke himself, and finally resolved to let them be. Armed with this new information, he would find some way to use it for great amusement, but he expected they'd be done chatting soon, and a cold bed would make Cadryn suspicious.

Zevran had nearly drifted off when Cadryn finally came to the their room. Pretending to be asleep, he listened to the man shucking off his clothes and the mabari making a soft chuff as he settled down near the cold hearth. When Cadryn slid into bed and curled around him, Zevran settled into the embrace, looked up at him sleepily—which he had no need to fake. "Finally," Zevran muttered, playfully indignant.

Cadryn smelled strongly of alcohol, which explained the exaggerated care he paid when laying a kiss on the corner of Zevran's jaw, then trailing his lips up one ear, before burying his face in blond hair and inhaling deeply. "Finally," Cadryn echoed, a resonant murmur half-felt, pressed as Zevran was against his chest, so full of contentment it frightened and excited Zevran at once.

No matter how badly he wanted it, _forever_ would be a very long time to spend tied to one person and one place. Staring that future down still terrified him, like staring down an approaching storm while ship-bound—the uncertainty of a course afterward, of remaining intact.

But pressed fully against the Warden, skin against skin, in so quiet a moment, the conflagration of emotions unbidden calmed, stilled to one thing: the storm was passed. This was the steady course onward after the storm. He needed no charts or guides, could navigate by constellations drawn in the scars and tattoos on his lover's flesh, by sightings made with emotions instead of cold logic. Cadryn understood how snarled things remained in Zevran's heart, no matter how many declarations of love and understanding passed between them, and he accepted that. The certainty of this lent Zevran some certainty in what he was doing.

It wasn't _forever_, then, simply _forward, together_, and that he could live with.


	11. Stone

Leliana delighted in the alarmed and incredulous stares from others on the streets. They'd seen the golem traveling with the Warden, or heard about it, but just the two of them strolling into Denerim's market, gossiping wildly in between philosophical and religious debates, apparently presented too surreal a picture to comprehend. And when they walked into a shoe shop, the golem ducking down and squeezing its impressive bulk through the door frame in a very human set of movements, she could just imagine their expressions, and commented on it to Shale.

"I had noticed the squishies staring. I confess a perverse sense of pleasure—they did not seem frightened, but perhaps maddened. I am not accustomed to having such an affect."

With a sweet smile, Leliana explained, "They don't understand what seems to be a statue debating the finer points of Andraste's teachings. It must seem like something out of a dream, or a nightmare."

"And still this pleases me." Shale's features drew up into as much of a smile as they could.

Before they could discuss the phenomenon any further the store's clerk, a rather petite dark-haired girl, approached, very carefully avoiding the golem's gaze. "May I help you?"

"My friend here needs some shoes," Leliana explained, gesturing to Shale to clarify her meaning. "I'm certain you can appreciate the difficulty she has finding them. I thought we could have a look at what sandals you have, and then have your cobbler make a few pairs for her, yes?"

The clerk finally glanced to Shale, eyes trailing up as if searching for some part of the stone figure that made sense. When Shale leered down at her in disgust the clerk swallowed nervously, and stuttered, "Follow me, please."

ooooooo

When Shale stopped him in the hallway and said, "The elder mage and I will be leaving soon," Cadryn honestly wasn't surprised—they'd already lingered longer than he expected.

"I'm sorry to hear it," was entirely true. While he got on very poorly with Wynne—or rather, Wynne got on very poorly with _him_, but Cadryn had grown very good at lying to her, telling her what she wanted to hear, by the end of the journey—he respected Shale. She was a kindred soul of sorts, someone who had sacrificed everything for duty and ideals and lost even more. Shale's story, he hoped, would have a pleasant ending, as he hoped his would as well. The future looked bright for both of them, and in Shale's prospective happiness he saw hope for his own as well. "To Tevinter, then?"

"Yes," she said. "I shall have the elder mage write to you to keep you updated on our progress. If we are successful, I will return to you a new—or rather, very old—creature." Though the motions of her stony face were hardly subtle, her expressions were, more implications than actual motion. In her smile he read anticipation, that the prospect amused her.

"Flesh or stone," Cadryn told her, "you'll still be Shale. And my friend in either guise."

"This sentiment is appreciated. Reciprocated, even. As much as I look forward to the journey and to possibly regaining my squishiness, I look forward with equal excitement to meeting you again through new eyes. And, since I suppose the painted elf will still be around, I imagine he'll seem less of a threat when I'm no longer so concerned with that bird-like aspect."

"Oh, he'll be even more of a threat." He laughed, just a little. "If your stone form is any indication, he'll be very taken with you in flesh."

After a curious noise, and her face shifted to a scowl, she said, "Perhaps we should arrange a meeting somewhere safe, then. Or you could send him on an errand. I think I would be forced to test the strength of my squishy form in doling out a sound beating were he to proposition me, and I sincerely doubt either of you want that."

"I imagine I'd be hard-pressed to put him back together," Cadryn agreed. "I'll have thought of something by then."

"I trust you will," she said. "And if I do not see you before leaving, do take care. I would be most perturbed to hear something had happened to you in my absence. And would have a need to beat the painted elf anyway."


	12. Chains

Final chapter, please move on to the **sequel, Nations and Ages**.

* * *

He'd never been so nervous about anything in his life, not even his Harrowing, or asking Zevran to sleep with him—why now, why this? Cadryn all but _shook_ with the effort of restraining himself from pacing, because he needed to seem calm, collected.

Because he was still afraid of rejection. Luring a halla into a clearing and convincing it to eat from your hand were two very different tasks, after all. There was plenty of room left for Zevran to bolt if cornered, if frightened. And while Cadryn felt certain Zevran had the fortitude to refrain from doing so _physically_, Cadryn didn't think he could handle a step backward in their relationship at this point. He'd invested far too much in the assassin, time and emotion. Holding everything in and letting Zevran take the first steps between them was infuriating, but necessary. But now he, firstly, felt it was time to offer some more solid confirmation of his dedication than whispered declarations and _surrender_ to the elf in spite of a persistent need for control; and secondly, he simply couldn't stand it any more. Even asking Zevran to sleep with him had been based on unsubtle cues from the assassin, so very little in their relationship had happened on Cadryn's initiative. He expected that would make a man wonder, some day, how much emotion really stood between them.

He hesitated in the front hall for quite some time, torn between going through with his plans and letting things progress as they were. But they'd be spending at least a month apart when Cadryn left for Amaranthine, likely more, and he wouldn't have a chance to do this again and it really _make sense_, for the Antivan to fully understand every implication of the offer, for an entire year. And Cadryn didn't think he could last a year with-

"Cadryn?" No need to find Zevran, then. He turned to greet his lover with a pleased smile, and Zevran regarded him curiously, obviously sensing tension. Instead of remarking on it, Zevran simply gave him a concerned look, and got straight to his reason for seeking Cadryn out. "Oghren and I are going to be out in the festivities today. I'm most interested to see how you Fereldans celebrate Summerday. More tamely than we do in my homeland, surely, but I expect there will be some fun to be had in Denerim, no?" A flash of a smile, suggestive. "I wondered if you would like to accompany us."

"I'd love to," Cadryn said, and it took a great deal of willpower to keep the uncertainty from his voice. "But I have a lot to do, still, before leaving. Things I can't delegate to a non-warden." Was this stalling, perhaps? True, but no one expected him to work on a holiday. No one but himself, at least.

That expression of concern returned, a very slight frown and narrowing of his eyes. Zevran reached up to run the fingertips of his right hand up Cadryn's left jaw, cupped the cheek and ran his thumb across the tattoo there, a complex motion but one made fluid and quick from practice. This was the first time he'd made the gesture where they could be seen, and the realization of that stole Cadryn's breath for a moment. _Maker_, why did this man make him feel like such a _child_ sometimes? Like a hopeless, lovestruck teenager? It was such a helpless feeling, and he loathed and loved it with equal fervor. "Something wrong, _mi amore_?"

"I need to talk to you," Cadryn managed. "It's nothing serious," he quickly added, anticipating the deepening concern such a statement would cause. "I just need to talk to you. Alone."

Zevran smiled uncertainly, but before he could voice any misgiving or approval Oghren ambled up, hands tucked into his pockets, grinning wickedly. "Sorry, Warden, but I got a date with the _Arlessa_ here." And then the dwarf started chuckling, overcome with his own clever humor.

Zevran's smile shifting to something half-amused when Cadryn quirked an eyebrow at him. "He's been at this all day," Zevran explained. "Arlessa this, my lady that—as if the thought just struck him. Unfortunately for Oghren, Alistair made that joke weeks ago, just after the announcement."

"Doesn't make it any less funny," Oghren said. "Or _true!_ Come on,  
_your ladyship_, the public awaits."

Cadryn caught the exasperation in Zevran's sigh, the set of his jaw that indicated he found this tiresome. "Oghren," Cadryn offered, "You have no idea, do you?"

With an annoyed huff, crossing his arms, Oghren admitted, "Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. Can't hold a station because he's an elf, can't be anything _officially_ because he's a _guy_. Look, I'm just trying to have some fun at his expense, alright? Stone knows you all get enough at _mine_."

Smiling in anticipation of Oghren's reaction, Cadryn said, "Not at all what I meant. You simply have the terms reversed. If you're going to call one of us _Arlessa_-"

"No!" Oghren uncrossed his arms, waved his hands once, sharply, to interrupt the explanation. "I don't want to hear—bah, I'm not drunk enough for this conversation! Come on, _Arl_."

And then Oghren practically dragged Zevran away. Laughing, the elf darted in for a quick parting kiss laid against the corner of Cadryn's mouth. "Can it wait, _mi amore_?"

"This evening," Cadryn answered. "No later."

"You have my word, then. I will be here for you." Which left Cadryn standing at the base of the stairs, uncertain of what had just passed but at once both amused and hollow.

"He's changed."

Cadryn turned at Leliana's voice to see her descending the hallway stairs. She crossed to him and they stood together, watching Zevran and Oghren leave engaged in an animated discussion. "How so?"

"He's softer," she said. "More open. Before he used his sensuality like a shield, now he wears it like a fine piece of jewelry. Something on display, but not to be shared. As if he is taking pleasure in making others jealous of you."

Self-consciously, Cadryn tugged on the earring with his right hand, rubbing at the green gem with the pad of his index finger. "He seems happier, to me. I hope he is, at least. He used to lie so much about his feelings, I doubt, sometimes."

"He is, I think," Leliana said. "It is what lets him behave like this. This change, I have been through it, too. When I went to the Chantry I found peace, and in that I began to feel safe. I could relax, and be who I really was beneath all the masks, at least in my heart."

"Safe?" Cadryn echoed, and Leliana nodded. They watched him leave, making a half-turn as he held the door for Oghren, eyes flitting up to catch Cadryn's—and then gone, out into the streets. _Safe_.

"And wanted for who he is, not what he can do. That means a lot to a person who is accustomed to being used. I should know."

"That's all I want," Cadryn said, voice breathy with nameless light emotions. "All I wanted, from the moment I realized how much we had in common—him to be happy, if only for a moment."

The bard giggled, laid a hand on Cadryn's arm to draw his attention to herself. Looking up at him in a sort of coy fashion, eyes guarded under long lashes, she said, "I think you've given him more than a moment."

"I'll give him every moment I have, if he'll let me." Leliana took great pleasure in the soft smile on Cadryn's face, a look of elation. "Even if it means I have to leave the Wardens some day. Without him, I wouldn't be here. _None of us_ would be here—I would've broken along the way, and died many times over. How do you tell someone like him that, without chasing them away?"

"He's marked you," she said, gesturing at the earring. "That says to me that he won't run, not unless you chase him off. Whatever it is you're worried over, you have no need for concern."

He regarded her with a very strange expression, one even Leliana couldn't read, but there was something vulnerable about it. "Thank you," Cadryn said. "I don't know what came over me, discussing it so openly, but _thank you_."

"And thank you, for everything you've done. For all of us." Any coyness left her expression, now sincere and soft, and the hand on his arm shifted just a little. "For me, especially. I understand that I will never escape what I was. I cannot turn my back on my past, and I should not. Those skills can be used for good, and that I use some does not mean I must use all. _Who I was_ is not as important as _what I am_. And I do myself a disservice to behave as if I am not a bard, even with the peace I've found in the Maker." Pausing for breath, and looking up to gauge Cadryn's reaction, she smiled. "What has passed between yourself and Zevran gives me hope for Marjolaine. I will mend her, if I can, and if I cannot I will burn those bridges properly this time. I will not linger here long after you leave for Amaranthine, but I will return some day. With or without Marjolaine. As you'll be Arl, I expect you'll throw a ball in my honor, yes?"

"Only if you promise to choose the musicians for me, and let me waste a little of the Arling's money on restoring that finery you miss from Orlais, if only for a night."

That drew another playful laugh from Leliana, and she squeezed his arm before letting go. "If that is the case, then you must promise to dance with me."

"Warn me with a letter when you're on your way back," Cadryn said. "I'll have to learn how to dance."

ooooooo

When Zevran opened the door, Cadryn wanted to stand and greet him, but didn't trust the sudden trembling in his limbs. He had to remain calm, otherwise this would be a weakness, and it wouldn't turn out at all how he imagined it should. He required perfection in this.

Zevran dropped heavily onto the couch next to him, leaning back and closing his eyes—Cadryn only managed a glance, pointedly _not looking_ in an attempt to control himself. "You wished to talk?"

"I want you to know that I understand how difficult it is for you to be forward about your feelings." Which wasn't at all how Cadryn meant to start, but with the words out he had to continue. "And I apologize for how I treated you when you first offered this," he tugged on the earring to clarify his meaning. "I thought... I thought you were telling me that I was being used, in some surreptitious way, and this was your guilty thanks for my help in achieving a goal. With everything that had passed between us before, that angered me, frightened me. But I understand, now. Not just what you really meant, but that you had trouble with it, and how much." Cadryn paused to glance at Zevran again, and found the elf sitting up, looking at him intently with those rich amber eyes, skin flushed from alcohol. So Cadryn turned to look at him properly, to return the gaze with unwavering eye contact in spite of his apprehension.

He continued, after a deep breath, meant to calm and failing horribly. "My point is that you've given me more than I've given you, as far as a commitment goes. That must be worrisome. I'll be leaving for Amaranthine shortly, and I know you'll follow when our business in Denerim is done, but that may be months from now. At very worst a year. I would avoid tying you down, because I know that time will be lonely, but I want you to know... I want you to know that I, at least, will not stray, and since I love you for everything that you are, I wouldn't resent it if you did, so long as you return to me." A hand strayed down to the folds of his robe, near the laces, drawing out a little silk pouch with trembling fingers, and worrying at unconsciously it with his hand. "You said that the earring was a proposal. Was that true?"

When he responded Zevran's voice was quiet, and Cadryn thought he detected the slightest tremble. "I said that it was if you wished it, and I meant that with every fiber of my being. I have never been so sure of anything in my life."

"Couples traditionally marry on Summerday," Cadryn said, and he began working at the ties on the pouch. "We're far from a traditional couple, so we can't expect anything official or sanctioned by the Chantry, but that seems very unimportant. The commitment is the same." Finally looking away, because shaking fingers couldn't undo the careful knot in the ties, Cadryn scowled. "_Damn it_. Of course I would muck this up, of all things."

Zevran's hands slipped in under his, smaller but more certain, made short work of the knot and opened the pouch. He looked up to Cadryn for some sign, and when Cadryn nodded, Zevran emptied the contents of the pouch onto his hand. "What-?"

"May I?"

"Yes," Zevran breathed, then he smiled wickedly. "Or, 'I do'-is that what I'm supposed to say?" Zevran drew his hair together in one hand, then held it aside while Cadryn fastened the chain around his neck. It was gold, a figaro chain with no adornment, and some of the finest craftsmanship he had ever seen. A second one remained, waiting in Zevran's other hand, this one proportionally larger to fit Cadryn.

And Cadryn's fingers had stopped shaking when they brushed against his neck, the small motions of fastening the chain a strange comfort, like a familiar caress, but one unlooked for. As he finished and drew away Cadryn ran his hands down the chain, straightening it to lay just so. Zevran repeated the motion with the other chain, fixing it around Cadryn's neck, but he drew closer, leaning in and overreaching himself such that he kept his body well away from Cadryn's, their faces close enough that a kiss came naturally, once the motion was done. They drew apart after a moment, just a breath apart, and Cadryn reached up to run fingertips down the side of Zevran's face, matching Zevran's affectionate gesture by tracing the tattoos there. "Let these be the only chains that will ever bind us again."


End file.
